On The Path: A Series of Shorts
by Scion Project
Summary: This follows the exploits of witchers, the deadly and daring monster slayers.
1. Fiend Or Foe, Act 1

_Kovir, 1273_

Winter: a cold death that spread across the land. The peasantry of Kovir held the belief that if theirs was a poor harvest, the gods had cursed them for their misdeeds; and now the punisher, old man winter, would come to take the souls of those who had offended the gods the most. Little food could be yielded from the snow covered mountains even with a blessing, nor from the ice-covered lakes; if hunger didn't kill you, the various beasts that came out during the winter would. If one did not brace themselves, winter would undo them.

Now, the harrowing winter was relenting. The first signs of green could be seen springing up from the snow. The sky cleared, and rays of sunlight warmed the frigid valleys. Animals which had slept through the deathly season were just beginning to stir and emerge from their caves and burrows, and the birds in the imposing oaks and redwoods had begun their endless sonnets, heralding spring.

And Gaël, master witcher, hated every last one of those damnable creatures.

"Should've brought a fuckin' bard," he grumbled to himself, hands forming fists, looking at the birdshit stained page. "Probably'd write a bloody good song 'bout these fuckin' birds."He attempted to clean the page, but it was too late; the page was ruined. He ripped it out so that the rest of the book would be spared. "Sent for this, all the way from fucking Vizima. Oobleck is going to be pissed." He eyed the birds up in the tree. "Who sent you?"

Most normal people would enjoy the sounds of the birds chirping, but they also didn't have to sit under them from dawn to noon. They also didn't have a witcher's hearing. Gaël seriously considered giving the tree, and in turn the birds, a good gust of aard, or a good scorching with igni. It wouldn't harm anyone, he reasoned; he was miles from the nearest city, and he doubted any annoying druids were near to scold him about not respecting nature. Despite this, Gaël chose to stay his hand. He could alert the beast he hunted.

The birds were forgotten as a primal bellow was heard. Fiends were distinct in their call; the untrained ear would likely think it a stag, but the difference was in the ending- a distinct click.

Gaël didn't like the fact that he had to do this. He was certain from its call that the fiend he hunted had lived in this portion of the wood for decades. Even as he laid out the means to lure the fiend, a bait that mocked the scent of a female in heat, he couldn't help but feel bad; it was unconscionable, it almost felt like an invasion. When an understandably angry nobleman and his grieving wife come to the court, however, and demand the head of a beast over the death of their son, the court witcher is called upon. Gaël attempted to reason with the family; he tried to explain that hunting in a fiend's territory, especially during mating season, is dangerous, and moreover stupid, but the family didn't take kindly to such wise words.

He heard the fiend's call again; it was growing closer. Gaël became tense; he had been sure of it before, but now in proximity the age of the beast, and subsequently the danger, was more than apparent. This was an elder fiend, and each warble and crack of its voice warned Gaël of the battle to come. Juveniles were predictable, and had not mastered the use of their third eye yet. Elders were different; they were seasoned hunters, and more than their third eye had fully matured, possessing powerful hypnotic magic.

Gaël looked over his panoply once more; everything must be perfect. His hand ran across the shaft of his spear; he gripped it briefly, bringing it up from the ground, pivoting it before him. Sitting it down carefully, Gaël checked over the potions he had brewed. Two swallows were in his pouch, hanging at his side. He added a slight bit of honey within the healing potions to make them more appetizing. It was a habit he had developed early in his profession; Gaël often vomited up the terribly bitter potions, especially swallow. The witcher had also prepared a katakan decoction, in case things got out of hand.

Gaël looked up to see the nearby trees shuffling. The birds above him fled from the oncoming path of the alpha predator. He gripped his spear firmly in hand, and slowly rose from his previous kneeling position to a low crouch. The fiend's heavy, lumbering, footfalls were now audible as it plodded through the wood. The medallion braided into Gaël's beard began to hum ever so quietly. The meadow, excepting those few cadences, was silent in the absence of the birds.

Its breath was steady, but the scent coming from the fiend was distinct; it was ready to mate. The witcher began to take deep, relaxing breaths. His mind was calm; all he thought of was the spear in hand, and the fiend coming towards him. The fiend called out again; the deafening bellow heralded its arrival into the meadow. It's black fur was marred by hundreds of scars and white stripes. Gaël studied the fiend; the stripes, and the more narrow shoulders told him it was a Kovirian sub breed. Hardy, well-adapted to the icy cold, its fur was so thick most men would struggle to cut through it even with the sharpest of blades. The long, pointed antlers told him it had to be at least fifty years old, and the various scars, which zig-zagged across its hide told him it was the dominate male in the region. Kovirian fiends were extremely territorial, killing most who entered their respective hunting grounds.

Now in the meadow, the monster halted for a moment. Its third eye scanned the tree line, pausing right on the witcher. Gaël knew he had been spotted, the third eye could see through any camouflage; it viewed a man's very soul, or so the druids claimed. Though exposed, the witcher did not panic; all was going according to plan. The fiend let out a roar, and stomped its forward leg, a clear 'get the fuck off my land' in the fiend vernacular. Gaël knew he would only be given one chance. He simply smirked.

"I ain't moving, you oversized stag."

The fiend must've heard the witcher's response, because it replied soon after with another deafening roar. Gaël braced himself; he rose from his low crouch, and stepped out into the open, spear held in one hand, the tip towards the snow and the aft held up and behind him. The fiend's stride quickened upon the witcher revealing himself fully. It moved faster, and faster, it moved so fast-

It didn't see the trap Gaël had placed onto the ground.

Gaël watched, impartial, as the fiend's front right leg fell into a pit of wooden pikes, trapping it. The fiend let out cries of pain as it struggled to free itself. Gaël knew it would not be an easy task, he had made it that way. The pit not only had pikes on the bottom, but along the sides as well; if the fiend attempted to pull out its leg, it would damage its limb even more. To make matters worse for the beast, Gaël had coated the pikes in an anticoagulant; by the time it pulled itself free, if it ever managed to, the witcher wouldn't have to overpower the creature- he only needed to make it bleed. Gaël stood before the fiend for several moments, waiting. The trap was somewhat underhanded, and he knew it. He would later feel guilty for setting it, but only slightly. The witcher stepped into the meadow to finish the task, before the fiend was able to free itself. He was hardly out of the thicket in which he waited before this occurred.

"Shit."

The fiend roared as it raised its bloody stump of a paw out of the trap. The air was thick with the smell of blood. That stench, that iron in the air; it always put Gaël on the edge. He smiled darkly, made a quick hand gesture, and soon his form was lightly covered in an orange glow, which seemed to collect into an orb, circling around his torso. He brought the spear into both hands, pointing it towards the fiend.

Despite its injured paw, the fiend did not relent. It charged dauntlessly toward the witcher; Gaël was surprised by its speed. The distance between hunter and prey was quickly closed as the beast held its head low, aiming to gore the witcher. Its horns swept violently upwards, but only caught thin air and bits of melting snow as Gaël expertly evaded the blow. The fiend had anticipated this, and slammed its good paw where the witcher ought to have been. It only succeeded in throwing snow into the air, and burying its good paw into the dirt. The witcher answered with a quick jab where the fiend's forearm and upper arm met. He got lucky; the witcher removed his spear and barrelled back, as the fiend's punctured artery poured thin red blood onto its leg.

The fiend stepped forward again, wildly clawing at the witcher, who only continued to reply with quick, precise jabs of his spear. The fight was not a quick one; it was long, drawn out, and bloody. The sun begun to hang low in the mid afternoon sky as Gaël dodged yet another strike from the fiend, and awaited the next. He watched as it stood, panting heavily; it had grown pale in the face, and the meadow, and his armor, was now deeply stained with it's thinned, wet blood. It's breaths were slow, and ragged, and its eyes were downcast and bloodshot; it was on its last leg, almost literally. Gaël on the other hand hadn't even broken a sweat; while not as fast as their continental cousins, ursine witchers had one thing the other schools didn't- endurance. If necessary, Gaël could've fought the fiend well into the night.

However, things then became complicated.

From the surrounding treeline, Gaël had missed a new challenger coming into the fight: ghouls. His attention was finally drawn to them as the creature whom he guessed to be the alpha of the pack leapt onto the back of the fiend, clawing, ripping and tearing into it. Gaël turned and saw at least ten of the corpse eaters scurrying out from the treeline, some joining in on the feast of the fiend, while the others looked to Gaël. He barely dodged the first ghoul's strike; ducking at the very last moment, he blasted the passing ghoul with aard, and sent it hurtling into the tree line, a wet snap sounding its impact with a nearby tree.

The next ghoul attempted to pounce the witcher like its packmate had; Gaël decided to make this one an example. Plunging his spear into its chest, he brought it back down, impaling it into the ground. The ghoul did not die so easily; it still clawed and reached toward the witcher from underneath its pinning. Gaël ignored it and drew the silver sword at his hip, its various runes glowing a dull red as he brought it into a 'strong' position.

"Knew we had a problem with ghouls," he murmured as he cleaved through an advancing monster. "Had no idea it was THIS bad."

A growl from behind told him another ghoul intended to strike. Spinning around, Gaël's mailed fist made contact with the ghoul's skull. A wet snap could be heard as his ursine strength was demonstrated; skull shattered, the ghoul fell limp in the snow. A breaking of his quen shield sent a more clever ghoul back, along with another one of its packmates. Gaël wasted no time with these two; dashing forward, he slammed a sabaton into the first dazed ghoul's head. The other lept to avenge his packmate, only to be cleaved by the witcher in mid air, sending it tumbling to the ground.

Turning back to look at the fiend, he saw that the alpha predator was still struggling. Several ghouls were on its back, ripping and tearing into its flesh. Judging by how thin the ghouls looked, this attack was out of desperation; they were starving. The beast crushed a ghoul with one of its paws, then rolled over in the snow, crushing two more under its weight that were too stupid, or too hungry, to get off.

Casting quen upon himself again, Gaël turned and faced the remaining ghouls. By now, most had already fled the failed attempt to down the wounded fiend, however one other joined the fight even as it seemed to be ending: an aghoul. The spikes on its back grown to a fearsome full size, it was likely around eight years old- still young, and hungry. Alghouls usually followed ghoul packs and took whatever they had killed or found. In keeping with this behavior, it barrelled through the smaller ghouls and towards the fiend.

"Oh fucking no you don't."

Forming a odd shape with his hand, fire spewed forth from Gaël's fingertips, engulfing the alghoul in flame. Gaël knew one thing that would scare the shit out of any breed of ghoul: fire. It's what he told every elderman from Vezima to Kovir, if you don't ever want to deal with ghouls of any type, keep a fire going. The bigger, the brighter, the hotter, the better. As such, the alghoul reeled back from its charge as it was covered in flame. The smell of scorching alghoul flesh filled the air as it joined its cousins in retreat.

"Right," he said catching his breath, a sign as intense as igni took a lot out of him.

"Now for why I'm here."

Gaël's attention turned to the fiend, and right in time. The fiend had finished the last of the ghouls, and had now refocused on the witcher. Hate- that is what Gaël saw in its eyes, and that's when he felt it; the world around him seemed to narrow as darkness enveloped his senses. For a moment, Gaël was actually frightened- then realized it was only the fiend's third eye. He crossed his wrists over his chest in the sign of the heliotrope; the anti-hex broke him from the fiend's hypnotizing gaze just as it was about slam into the witcher.

Barrelling out of the fiend's path, the witcher made haste to the spear from before. Gaël felt the fiend upon him, he chanced a glance to see that it was now charging towards him as fast as its three good legs could move. The ursine witcher's one flaw was his general speed; he was never a particularly fast man, but he could get out of the way of most things. This time, that would not do; he needed that spear. He made a snap judgement. Drawing from what strength remained in him, the witcher formed an aard sign and held it, waiting for just the right moment. Right as the fiend was about to close in, he turned and let loose. A bright flash followed by a gust of wind halted the fiend long enough for Gaël to recover his spear from the still writhing ghoul pinned underneath it.

"Now, where were we?"

The fiend attempted to slash at Gaël with its claws, however this time it was a faint. The witcher was barely able to avoid the downstroking antlers attempting to gore him. Gaël repaid the fiend with a quick jab to its jugular as it brought its head back up. Blood poured onto the white snow, but the fiend was now too tired, and too enraged, to care. Its strikes were becoming easier and easier to dodge, but maintained a level of ferocity; Gaël knew it wouldn't be long, yet he still needed to be careful. He kept his distance from the now panting stationery fiend, its legs wobbling; it had even rested its bloody stump of a paw back onto the ground.

Finally, it lifted itself as high as it could with its torn and bloodied legs, let out one last deafening roar, and attempted to pounce on the witcher. Gaël repeated the same tactic as he had before, yet the fiend anticipated this; as it landed, the fiend lashed out with its antlers, smashing against Gaël and breaking his quen shield. An orange glow covered him for the briefest of moments before he was sent back flying. Landing on his back, he let out a curse.

"Fucking fiend!"

Gaël hurried up to his feet, spear ready, only to find the fiend had not yet gotten up. Laying in a growing pool of its blood, it seemed finally spent, panting, groaning in agony. Slowly now, the witcher approached the beast, looking it over; its third eye was held lazily open in one last attempt to spite the witcher. Its effort was thwarted by the witcher crossing his wrists over one another once again, a blue glow faintly enveloping him as he did so.

"Heliotrope- it's a bitch," he mumbled as he stood before the fiend.

At that it seemed to sigh, its face now white as the snow it laid in. The witcher could hear its heartbeat slow; this was the end. The sky was overcast as Gaël looked over the fiend with an almost sympathetic look on his face.

"I didn't want this, y'know," he began as his gaze met the fiend's head. He knew it would do nothing more now; it had accepted its fate. "Some snotty brat walks onto your land, kills your game and tries to kill you, all you did was return the favor." He placed his sabaton onto the fiend's head, with his spear ready to be plunged into the fiend's third eye.

"You didn't deserve this."


	2. Fiend Or Foe, Act 2

**AN: Well, here is chapter 2! Hope you guys enjoy!**

Gaël did his best to give the beast a quick death. A strike through the third eye would hit the brainstem of the fiend. Death would be instantaneous, painless if the manuals were correct. As he slowly pulled the spear back out he took a moment to take in his surroundings.

The meadow was still, but showed signs of the struggle. The snow was red, both with the blood of the fiend, and the blood of the ghouls that had attempted to steal Gaël's kill. He knew more would come, and soon. After finally pulling his spear free from the fiend he turned and walked back to the rough sack he'd left in the thicket. He produced a bone saw and sighed.

"Now for the fun part," Gaël said with notable sarcasm.

He started with collecting his trophy. The bone saw did its job well, quickly removing the antlers from the fiend's head. The witcher needed proof of the fiend's demise; it's antlers would do nicely. The wolves howling reminded of the rest of the job: the clean up.

Gathering the ghoul corpses together along with the fiend, he began building a bonfire. He was fortunate to have brought oil to help him in his endeavor. He hummed a soft tune while doing so; he knew not where it originated, though if he guessed Gaël would say his mother. It helped him keep hold of his humanity, reminding him of his origins.

Finally as the late-afternoon sun slipped away, and the air began to cool even more, the fire was lit. The smell of burning flesh offended the witcher greatly, however, he knew it was necessary. Many horrible monsters, like ghouls and other necrophage, would definitely see this as a literal feast, and he wished to rob them of it. He had little respect for necrophage; unlike most monsters they were not apart of the normal food chain in most places. They disrupted the ecosystem, leading to unrest within the wilds, which would stir up the bigger monsters which would lead to panic.

Packing up his gear, he began the long journey home. It had grown dark in the forest when the the witcher came through it. Gaël knew he would have to ride at night, which wasn't much of a problem, and more of an inconvenience. He would rather have the sun up high than the moon; more predators would be out, meaning more delays. He arrived where he had tied off his horse, in a grove of trees next to the main road to Karkov, the capital of Kovir.

"Warm, Light-Foot?" He asked his brown and black mare. The mare purred her lips and stomped her heavy hoofs in the snow. Gaël tied the fiend trophy onto the side of the saddle, the antlers facing away from it. "Don't fuss, we'll be in home soon."

Mounting Light-Foot, Gaël spurred her on, and they went down the road. Once they had broken out of the woods Light-Foot begun to trot faster, the witcher hurrying her on; the thought of home was starting to get to him. Unlike most witchers Gaël did have a house of his own, built with his own hands, even. Took him an entire season, but he did do it. Wasn't much, no more than a cabin with celler, a stable for Light-Foot, and a smokehouse- it wasn't much but it was his. He was licking his lips, thinking of the meats he had stored, venison sounded very good at the moment.

"Help!"

Gaël thoughts for what would be for dinner were driven away. He had heard a cry, it was a child's.

"Help! Please!"

Gaël spurred Light-Foot, the mare neighing and speeding forth. His mutated hearing put the voice further down the path, he estimated he was two hundred, three hundred yards from the voice. His heart pounded hard. Children always got to him. The voice sounded more and more desperate, he could faintly hear the sounds of sobbing on the wind as he raced toward the cries. He reeled Light-Foot he came to a fork in the road. He listened carefully, all other sounded left him, he focused solely on the cry. It took him a moment but he could 'see' the origin of the voice.

"Please! Gods! Gods! Anyone! Help!"

Spurring Light-Foot once more Gaël thundered down the path on the right. He was heading down hill, through a thicket of trees. He internally sighed in relief, the cries were easier to hear, but now more heart wrenching. Horrible memories of days past flooded him briefly. Ghastly visions flash before him for just a moment. He twitched, bringing himself back to reality.

"Fucking get on it Gaël." He whispered to himself. "Not the time to be reminiscing."

Finally he came to the true source of the cries, red headed little girl, bundled up in a too big looking coat with a red cloak over it. She was knelt over a hole in the ice, hot tears running down her rosy red cheeks. She seemed to have spotted Gaël, her eyes widened.

"Please!" She cried out to the witcher, "Please help! My sister, she fell in!"

Gaël looked over the pond, the ice was very thin. He hesitated, Gaël was by no means a normal sized man. Ursines were never normal; not one was below six and a half feet, and never below seventeen stone. They were big, they had to be, the beast they hunted were big. But this meant Gaël ran into the problem of being too heavy to be on the ice.

"Stand fuckin' still." He barked, he weighed his options before hoping off Light-Foot and slowly making his way onto the ice, "Don't move."

The girl sniffled, "Okay."

Gaël took very, very soft steps onto the ice. He could hear it, creaking beneath his sabatons. Every step sounded like glass being wrapped during a windstorm to him. It was maddening. Every step brought flashes back to hunting foglets in Zerikadia during the winter. Damnable creatures had lured onto thin ice, nearly drowning him.

"One step at a time, one step at a time." He told himself, trying to keep himself from moving too fast. Gaël wanted to get off this death trap as quickly as possible. He had no idea how deep it was, but judging by how big the pond was, it could very well end him. Time was not on his side but he had to be careful, otherwise he could shatter the whole pond.

"Who're you talking too?" The girl asked the witcher.

"Meself." Gaël said as he inched closer to the hole, "Come on, I got to-"

Crack and a snap stopped his thought process as the ice beneath him failed and he slipped beneath the surface. Though it scared him as much as the igni scared the ghoul, he quickly collected himself. Their was a bright side, it wasn't very deep. Before he knew it, his sabatons had met with the rocky pond bottom. Then that's when he saw it. A girl, a little older than the redhead, with long yellow hair, gasping for air. The witcher made his way as best as a heavily armored man under water could. He found the issue; her foot had been caught on a tree branch that was on the pond bottom. Reaching over he noticed one thing that was... Odd.

The water around her, it was warm.

Though that thought soon went away as soon as he freed the girl and she swam up to the hole in the ice. Now he had to escape. Finding the way back up was harder than he expected; despite the ice being thin, it still robbed most of the already dying light of the day. He managed to find the edge and, with a single punch, broke through the ice and took in a deep breath.

Coughing up several breath fulls of ice cold water, he turned to see the two girls were now standing on the edge of the pond. The witcher, after catching his breathe fully emerged from the pond, the girls step away from him as his full height is truly seen. Gaël knelt low, he knew his size was intimidating and he wish not the frighten the girls more than he already had. He got a better look at the yellow haired one. She was wearing a soaked fur coat with brown fur pants and leather shoes. Yet despite that fact, she did not look cold, she wasn't even shivering.

"Are you a knight?" The red haired one asked she in awe of Gaël's stature.

He chuckled, "No lass, just an old fashioned witcher." He held his braided heard up, showing the medallion which was tied into it.

"So you're of the Bear School?" The yellow haired one asked, lilac eyes scanning the witcher over.

Gaël raised a brow, "Mhm, smart one ain't ya."

She nodded, though she was young Gaël could tell from her gaze she was many years older than she appeared "Me mum-" She bit her tongue, "I mean," She started again, "My mother was a sorceress, I want to be like her when I grow up. Intelligence is the defining trait of any sorceress."  
"No need for the formalities child." Gaël said to the child, "What're your names?"

"I'm Adan, this is-"  
"Roza! Thank you for saving my sister!" Roza gleefully exclaimed.

"Roza, we talked of this, don't interrupt people when they talk." Adan said in a scolding tone.

"Sorry." Roza said folding her hands together.

Gaël couldn't help but smile, something about the infighting of the two little girls reminded him of simpler times, "Where you're ma and da?"

"We don't have a ma and da..." Adan said, though she tried to hide it, sorrow filled those words. "We live with our Uncle Crow." Adan said.

"You know where that would be?" Gaël asked.

Adan nodded, she pointed toward the road which Gaël had come, "It's down the road... I think."

Gaël nodded, "Let me take you two home. Not safe after dark."

Guiding Light-Foot by the reins Gaël begun the trek to Adan and Roza's house. He let Adan ride on Light-Foot while Roza rode on Gaël's shoulders. He learned much about them during the hike. Not much of their past though, they were rather vague about their parentage. They gave details of who they were. Both claimed to be descended by a knight from Toussaint, Sir Andrew the Dragon Slayer. As the name implies, he was rumored to have slain a dragon while questing in Nilfgaard. Their mothers were different however; Adan claimed her mother was a sorceress. She had the magic to back it, too; the spell she casted on the water around herself to keep warm was proof enough, but she was also able to impress the witcher with small sparks crackling from her fingertips. Though she tried to act more mature than her age, Gaël could still see the hidden glee in her face as she demonstrated. Roza had no magic, but talked endlessly on how she wanted to wield a 'zweihander', just like Uncle Crow.

"Uncle Crow's zweihander is humongous!" Roza said extending her little arms as far as she could. "I measured it, it's seventy-two inches long, exactly! I want to atleast be able to wield a sixty-one inch blade. Uncle Crow says I might not be big enough to fight with a blade as big as his."

Gaël nodded, "Y'know your swords."

Roza nodded, "Yep, yep! If I don't become a knight, I want to become a blacksmith! So I can make the best swords in the realm."

"You certainly have high hopes." Gaël replied, he couldn't help but smile. Roza was just such a sweet girl. Clearly innocent of the world, but perhaps that was a good thing.

"She gets that from uncle," Adan said looking down the road, "'Always reach for the stars.'"

"Good motto to live by. Many don't have dreams like you two do." Gaël said, though he had a feeling neither of them may ever see their dreams fulfilled. He kicked himself internally for being a cynic, but part of him still told him they were nothing but children. How could they know anything of the world? Still, the part of him that admired the two for their optimism remained. Hope, no matter how small, is always a good thing. It was something he believed his mother told him, but then again he could barely remember her face, let alone what she sounded like.

"Yeah! Mom always said to dream big!" Roza said jumping a little on his shoulders.

"You knew your ma?" Gaël asked.

"Mhm, she was a knight! Just like da. She died though, fighting a demon." Roza said rather maturely. Gaël was impressed. Most children her age could not handle the concept of death, nor fully understand it, yet, Roza seemed to perfectly know what death meant, and even accepted her mother's death, or at least he thought.

The trio made their way up the road until they happened upon a cabin. Gaël was impressed. The cabin was quite large, two stories infact, a large chimney puffing smoke into the air, lights from inside told him someone was home. As soon as they came within speaking distance a disheveled looking man came out. Gaël put him somewhere in his forties. The man wore armor of sorts, a studded leather jacket with a fur collar and chain mail shoulder pads. The steel sabatons and gauntlets gave him away, clearly a mercenary from Wendland, famed for their zweihander swordsmen, who came to claim fortune and glory in battles across the continent.

"Roza! Adan!" The man cried, he had a thick accent, as he ran down the path to Gaël, Adan and Roza.

"Uncle Crow!" The two girls cried at the same time

Gaël let Roza off his shoulders and brought Adan down from Light-Foot. The two girls sprinted up to their uncle, practically tackling him. It was these tender moments that made Gaël's work all the sweeter. Gold was cold, and hard, but these moments- seeing families reunited, surviving some terror that threatened to tear them apart, these sights- made Gaël feel whole, more than any amount of gold could make him feel.

"Where did you two go? We looked all over for you!" Crow asked tears in his eyes.

"We went down to the pond, down the road!" Roza replied, "Adan fell in, but the nice witcher saved her!"

Crow looked over Gaël. It was rare, and always delightful for him, to be gazed upon with an expression of genuine gratitude. He was so use to the looks of frightened awe or hateful disgust that these rare moments were made all the better. Crow's lilac eyes darted over the witcher a few times, as if he was taking him in.

"Master witcher, I-I can't thank you enough." He said extending a hand, "Schaefer von Dämmerung, just call me Crow."

"Gaël of Karkov," He introduced himself. He hesitated, but took the man's offered hand and shook it firmly. He normally didn't like to shake people's hands; Gaël would often engulf their hand with his fingers alone, leaving him feeling that it inadvertently intimated those he greeted. To his surprise, Crow didn't seemed phased at all.

"Gaël? Ah, you must be the court witcher." Crow stated.

The witcher nodded in reply, "Aye, lord Ballius sent me out on a fiend hunt."

Crow nodded, "We heard the fiend coming, I was out hunting. I feared for the little ones." He gestured to Adan and Roza, "I panicked when I didn't find them in their usual spot."

"No one was hurt, let us be thankful for that." Gaël said giving Crow a small smile.

Crow turned to the girls behind him, "Adan, I want you to put clean clothes, and Roza go wash up." He turned back to the witcher, "Please, join us for dinner, I have to repay you in some way. We can start with stew and I can get one of my kegs of Wendlander Beer out."

At the last part the witcher raised a brow. That was no ordinary beer, Wendland was known, nay, famous, for it's beer. Gaël looked at the sky and saw that the sun was now gone for the day, the clouds had cleared allowing the full moon to be seen. The witcher wagered he wouldn't be able to get much riding done and it was rare for him to be offered a meal. Not to mention he was soaking wet from the pond. Ursine witchers had immunities to the cold, but it still annoyed him; a meal, an ale, and a warm fire were all very tempting. He did keep an extra set of clothes in his saddle, and he could be dry and on his way home to his own ale, meal, and fire, however. Weighing his options, he decided not to turn down the Wendlander's hospitality.

"Sure, I could use a bite to eat, and would that happen to be pale ale?"


	3. Fiend Or Foe, Finale

It had been a while, Gaël reflected, since he had been in genuinely good company. Sat by the fireplace, he and Crow had been conversing long after dinner. Both found that they had much to talk about. The house was cozy on the inside. The fireplace bathed the home in a calming, orange glow. The heat which radiated from the fireplace had begun to dry Gaël's tabbert, though he still wished to stay the night. It would be rude to leave at this hour.

Crow turned out to be quite a humorous man. A far cry from Gaël's cold, distant, apprentice, Ry, whom he shared his home with. It was also nice to share a drink with a man who had lived a full life. Gaël was nearing two hundred years in age, at least he believed. The witcher had lived a long life, and even though Crow was only forty, a mere fifth of Gaël's life, it felt as if he was among peers. Crow was the son of a farmer who got lucky enough to be set upon by bandits, as he put it. Fighting them off with the only thing he had on him, a scythe, the young farm hand became a local hero. Which caught the eye the local mercenary guild, 'Die Roten Getarnten Ritter' or 'The Red Cloaked Knights'.

"My countrymen are not the most creative bunch." Crow said in between drinks from his tankard.

"Quite the literal bunch." Gaël remarked

"You have no idea." The former mercenary said, "That sword," Crow pointed to the mantle piece, a large two handed blade, which looked like a claymore to Gaël. "In our land we call it, a 'zweihander'. In your tongue it means, 'two-handed'."

"So you traded that in your scythe for a 'zweihander', interesting." The witcher mused. Crow did not look the type to be a swinging such a weapon, he was rather wiry. Then again Gaël knew looks were deceiving, for all he knew Crow could cut a man clean in two with that weapon effortlessly.

"Yes. I actually broke the the tool. Father was furious." Crow laughed taking another sip of his ale, "He came out yelling at me, after I drove the remaining bandits away. Lecturing me to take care of the farming tools." He shook his head, "I haven't spoken to him in a long while... Perhaps I should write him."

Gaël hummed noncommittally could sense that their was bad blood between Crow and his father, so he decided to switch gears, "So, how'd you end up being called 'Crow?'" He settled on.

"Ah, one of my funnier ventures:" Crow begun, coming to the edge of the chair he sat in, "I got lost on the field of battle. Got knocked out by a lucky cutthroat." He gulped the last of his ale, "Woke up, crows, all over me. Ready to peck my eyes out. So I did what any sane man would do. Scream. Turns out the sell swords we were up against were rifling through the corpses nearby. Heard my scream and saw the crows fly, scared them off. Ran screaming 'The dead have come back to life!'" He said laughing heartly, "And that is why they call me Crow."

Gaël chuckled, "You are a lucky bastard."

"Suppose I am." Crow said leaning back into the chair, "What about you, any funny stories of Skellige? Heard many heroic tales come from those islands."

"Who says I'm from Skellige?" Gaël asked Crow taking another sip of his ale.

Crow raised a brow, "Oh? Well. Where are you from then?"

Gaël hesitated. This wasn't often a subject he spoke of, but he liked Crow, and the alcohol had loosened his grip slightly on his inhibitions.

"I was born in Temeria. Along the coast." He begun looking into the fire, "When I was a lad, I was taken from my home, by Skellige raiders."

Crow's eyebrows shot up, eyes wide. "Forgive me, sir. I didn't wish-"

The witcher raised a hand, he turned back to Crow, "It's fine... The meister said I should speak of it more." His gaze did not leave the fire. The dancing of the flames soothed Gaël's mind. "When I was eight, a witcher came to my jarl's hold. The jarl was late, so I brought the witcher ale and bread. I was then used as payment. I being the first thing to greet the witcher."

"So that is how you became a witcher?" Crow asked.

Gaël nodded, "Yeah... The witcher who took me was like a father to me. Took me in when no one else would. Raised me, even gave me a chance to leave the school."

"But you still became a witcher, why?" Crow queried.

"Well," Gaël reflected, he now gazed away from the fire, now to Crow, "It was like I was his son now. I wanted to follow his footsteps. So I endured the trials. Became a Witcher of the Bear School."

"Your master still alive?"

Gaël didn't like that question. Mainly because he didn't have an answer. Even after eighty years of looking and finally settling in Kovir, he still didn't know for sure. His gaze returned to the fire. He gulped the last of the ale, placing the empty tankard on the table next to him. The witcher tapped his fingers on the table, thinking of how to best put it.

"After our school fell, all I could find of him was his medallion, and his silver sword: _Long Claw_." Gaël said, his words emotionless, "I looked for him, spent eighty years doing that. Trekked all the way to the far east even. Finally decided I was done looking, settled down in Kovir."  
"You must have a lot fascinating stories then." Crow postulated, he looked at the empty tankard still in his hand, "Well, one more drink before bed, would you like one?"

Gaël nodded, he picked the tankard up and handed it to Crow, who disappeared down the hall. The witcher sat looking into the fire, he almost missed the quiet footsteps upstairs. In his peripherals he could see the stair case, on it, Roza peeked down into the common room. Her blue, almost silver, gazed in wonder at the drying armor in front of the fireplace. Gaël tilted his head slightly towards the stairs, he heard Roza reply with a hushed gasp and a franticly tiptoeing back up stairs. Gaël chuckled and turned to look down the hall, seeing Crow returning with two full tankards.

"Some girls you got there." Gaël mused taking the offered tankard.

Crow nodded, "Aye. Both them. Have a feeling about them, they're going to do great things."

Gaël took a sip of ale, "What makes you say that?"

Crow took a long drink of ale before counting, "Has to do with their mothers. Both of them."

"Called you 'uncle' though by how you say it, they're half sisters." Gaël postulated.

"Yeah. Same father, different mothers." Crow said taking a sip of ale, "Adan's mother was my sister. She got sold off to some sorcerers when I was little. Came back... Different. Pregnat as well, a knight from Toussaint around her arm. Andrew the 'Dragon Slayer'."

` "Adan mentioned that, was that title just to impress women or was it earned?" Gaël asked. It was rare to hear such a title. More often it was just some meaningless title taken to impress dull maidens or ignorant nobles. Though in his travels, Gaël had encountered many things, dragons being one of them. And you never fought one, you ran from them.

Though by how Crow's expression, the claim was true. "I didn't see him fight the drake. But Andrew showed me where it died, showed me how he slew it. Gods. The skull was the size of a carriage!"

"So that why your sister fell in love with him?"

Crow sighed, "I don't think she ever loved him." He confessed taking another swig of ale, "Truthfully my sister has a heart of stone. Soon after Adan was born, she left Andrew. Never seen a man so broken in his life."

"Then he met Roza's ma?" Gaël was seriously intrigued, the story behind these girls was truly gripping.

"Soon after he-"

The two men were torn from their conversation by the sound of startled horses. This soon followed by someone cursing. Gaël couldn't make out what the words were but he knew when someone was in pain. The witcher and former mercenary bursted out the back door to find Gaël's horse torn from the post it was tied to. Light-Foot was clearly startled.

"Easy girl!" Gaël said approaching the mare, a hand extended towards the horse.

Light-Foot kicked up again, clearly unnerved by what just happened. Crow attempted to aid the witcher, but was pushed back by Gaël. "I said easy!" He drew an Axii Sign in the air, the charm managing to calm the horse down.

Gaël came forward to the mare, placing a hand on her nose and stroked it, "Shhh, it's alright girl. What's bothering you." He then noted the blood on her lips, "Not yours, someone try to steal you?" She purred her lips in reply, "That so? Well will have to-" He paused, while looking over the saddle bags.

The fiend trophy was gone.

"Oh fucking hells!"

"What-" Crow paused upon seeing the missing trophy, "Shit!"

"Thieves out here. Must be someone desperate enough to piss off a witcher." He looked down at the clear trail which lead into the neighboring wood. "What's in that direction?" He pointed towards the woods. "Anything noting?"

"Burnt down manor. Belong to the previous lordling of this land." Crow stated. "I'll don my armour."

"No." Gaël said turning to Crow, "You have a family to look after."

"But he stole it on my-"

"You have nothing to prove Crow." Gaël went inside, "Let me handle this. Desperate men are the fucking worst men to fight. You ought to know this."

Crow sighed, "Fine. But if you're not back before the morn, I'm coming to find you."

Gaël nodded, "If you wish to murder sleep, go ahead. I'll be back for breakfast." he said as he donned his armor.

Soon as he came outside he came to Light-Foot. Thankfully, the thief only seemed interested in the trophy, leaving Gaël's weapons on the saddle. He pulled his steel sword off the saddle and strapped it to his back. As he was about to leave, he turned back around and eyed his silver sword. _Long Claw_. Something nagged him, almost telling him to take the sword along. He shrugged, and took the sword off the saddle.

"Couldn't hurt." Gaël said to himself taking it and strapping it too on his back. "Fucking ghouls still out there... And worse."

Gaël marched out into the snow. The wind had begun to pick up as the witcher entered the wood. He cursed his past self for not making cat earlier, the woods were so dark. Even with his mutated sight, Gaël could barely see twenty yards down the trail, which was hard to follow. The thief had light feet, barely making impressions in the snow. The give away was the blood. Gaël could smell it, see it on the ground.

The first howl of wolves alerted him that he might have the creatures on his trail. He waited to hear the next howel, which soon came after the first, to his right, he estimated about hundred, two hundred yards off. As he came to a clearing with the hints of a creek bed, he heard the howl again, this time from behind him, fifty, sixty yards off. Upon hearing the fourth howl, from the front, thirty, forty yards off, he drew his steel sword, and waited.

Gaël didn't need to wait long. The wolves were on him within a few moments. The first ran straight towards him, obviously the alpha. Maw wide open, ready to sink his teeth into the witcher. Gaël replied in kind. Stepping aside he grabbed the wolf by the fur and slammed it into the ground. A cleave from his sword ended the beast's life, blood splattering across the snow. Two more came in, one bit at his leg, his greaves reducing the vicious bite into an annoying tickle on his calf. He kicked the wolf away, teeth crunching in reply; the wolf sped off into the woods while another tried to bite into his gauntleted free arm. It soon got it's listen, the wolf was pommeled by Gaël's fist and ended with a vicious stomp of his sabaton.

Cutting another wolf down, one last one jumped onto Gaël's back. Before the wolf could sink it's teeth into his neck, the witcher grabbed it by the head and flung it down onto the snowy earth. A snap could be heard as the wolves back shattered, Gaël sticking his sword into it's chest for good measure.

The witcher looked up to the remaining wolves. They were now slowly backing away, waiting to see. Gaël answered their predatory gazes with a scream, and focused his anger into the igni sign. Flame burst from his hand, scaring the remaining wolves into running. Gaël took a moment to catch his breath. Signs as intense and passionate as igni drained a witcher of their stamina. Magic was always a dicing thing. Always ran the risk of making yourself breathless, as Gaël just did. It could be worse, he figured, some witchers would put too much into their signs, passing out from the loss of so much energy, or worse. Gaël took a few deep breathes and turned back to the trail, though it now came apparent of where it lead. From the clearing he could see it: the manor.

It was an impressive sight, for a ruin. The roof had mostly collapsed, but thanks to the light of the moon, he could make out a large tower that ran on the side of it, battlements on the top of it. He could not see anyone inside it, but he saw smoke rising from it, which meant people.

"Gotcha."

Gaël now made his way through the forest once more, slapping away branches and bushes as he thundered through. The witcher was having a rather nice evening, and now was being robbed of much deserved sleep. Not to mention the thievery which spurred all of this. Gaël was ready to get this over with.

Clearing the forest he finally came to the gates of the manor. A large wall guarded it, Gaël was impressed it still stood, after all this time. Even the the reinforced wooden gate had stood the test of time, as sturdy as it was the day it was put in place. Gaël follow the tracks to the wall, where it abruptly stopped. A red hand print was on the wall. Gaël looked up and saw more red hand prints.

"Hmm, dexterous this one." He looked to the gate and smirked, "Must've not know the gate's open."

The gate, while closed, wasn't locked. Though heavy, Gaël was able to push the gate open and enter the manor, grunting as he did so. He was reminded of the gardens in the noble houses of Nilfgaard as he entered. Overgrown flower beds dotted the courtyard; vine covered statues of indistinguishable figures rose above these flower beds, and a long broken fountain in the center of it all.

Sword held firmly, he slowly made his way to the manor. His eyes darted from window to window, looking for signs of movement. His ears were wide open, he heard faint signs of movement, but nothing he could pinpoint.

Then his medallion begun to hum.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

It was now shaking.

Gaël now heard something moving, along the side, in between the overgrown flower beds. The witchers ice blue eyes watched the movement, he slowly drawing _Long Claw_ from it's scabbard.

"Don't move!"

Gaël's attention was torn from the movement back to the manor. There he saw the object of his hunt; the thief. A hooded man stood at the entrance, the door partially obscuring him. A crossbow held in one shaky hand, the other, equally as shaky, held a broken sword. What truly caught his attention, and flared his anger, was the silver cat-head medallion which hung around his neck.

"D-don't come any closer! Or, or I'll shoot you!" The cat witcher threatened Gaël.

Gaël flared his nostrils and stomped in the cat witchers direction, causing the thief to jump slightly. Gaël knew his type. Cat witchers were by far the most hated of the schools. Cowards, murderers, drug-addicts, thieves. They had no honor, nor any respect. Yet, they somehow had preserved their school the longest.

"Shoot me? Really?" Gaël asked sarcastically, "Now listen-"

A howl.

No. A screech.

That's what prevented Gaël from finishing his remark. It was so deafening, so terrible Gaël's ears rang, and his vision blurred. The witcher knew what beast was in the garden, a mountain howler. Gaël turned but the howler was already upon him. It was tall, deceptively lanky, its sunken in eyes glowed an eerie red, its jagged teeth were on full display, as if it were smiling upon the disoriented ursine witcher.

Gaël finally came back to his senses after the howler smacked him with its disportionately large claws. His armor absorbed much of the hit, but his grip on _Long Claw_ had been sloppy, and the blade was knocked from his hands. The witcher was barely able to dodge another strike by the howler, Gaël replied with a strike of his gauntlet. The blow knocked the howler back, and Gaël rushed to his sword, which was now lying on the far side of the garden.

The witcher was almost able to pick up _Long Claw_ when he felt the howler about to strike again. Ducking at the very last moment, Gaël turned and signed igni at the howler. The monster raised its arms to defend itself from the flames, giving the ursine witcher time to recover his blade.

The howler raised its claws again, striking at the witcher. Gaël allowed the claws to sail on by, waiting for the right time to strike. Gaël frowned, it was much older than he suspected. A collection of skulls were tied across its chest with clothes it most likely stole. Judging by the amount of skulls, five to be exact, it was an experienced killer, and the way it fought proved it. The mountain howler kept its chest protected; with every strike it kept its free arm covering its vulnerable chest and belly. The howler was doing well in defending against the ursine witcher.

The cat witcher was a different matter.

Leaping onto the monster's back, the thief drove his own silver blade into its back. The howler let out another deafening screech; Gaël did his best to shield his ears, but it was still disorientating. The beast forced the cat witcher off, and the cat fell to the ground, flat on his back, trying to crawl away in panic. The howler raised both its fist, ready to smash the cat witcher.

"Oh no you don't!" Gaël growled.

With a devastating strike, Gaël turned the whole battle. _Long Claw_ cleaved the left leg of the howler clean off. It stumbled down to a knee, it's head now at Gaël's level. Gripping it by the hair on it's neck, he pierced the howler's skull through and through. It did not scream, only croaked out it's last breaths, before spasming all over and falling limp. The witcher pulled his sword free and kicked the monster's lifeless corpse to the ground. A dark crimson pool forming around it. Gaël recovered the other silver sword, and held it in his free hand.

Gaël stared down the cat witcher, who would not meet his gaze. He was shaking, clearly perturbed by the ursine witcher. The ursine witcher turned his gaze back to the mountain howler, now with intrigue. The two witchers stood in silence for several moments, looking over the howler before one spoke.

"W-What was that?" The cat finally spoke, his voice was youthful and shaky.

"Mountain howler." Gaël kicked it's head, checking if it was truly gone, "Tough old beasts. Don't know why it was so far from the mountains." He looked up to the mountains, the moonlight shining on the white caps. His icy gaze returned to the hooded cat. He sheathed his silver and drew his steel, the cat witcher noticing, and stepping back.

Gaël noted the wound on cat witcher's hand. It was clearly from Light Foot, he didn't need to examine it any more closely; the bit was quite obvious. "Now." He pointed his sword at the cat witcher. "Where is it?"

The cat witcher pointed to the manor, "It's inside... Look I-"

"Don't give me your shit, boy!"

The cat witcher shuddered, "Please! Understand I-"

Gaël interrupted the cat with his sword pommel. The cat witcher tumbled to the ground. Gaël raised his sword ready to strike, but paused. Upon seeing the cat witcher's face he realized how truly young he was. There was no facial hair on his pale visage at all. Youthful cat eyes looked up at the ursine witcher in fear of what would happen next. Gaël sighed, and lowered his sword to his side.

"What's your name, boy?" Gaël asked the cat.

"John, sir." He said in a nasally tone, he having a hand to his nose, attempting to stanch the flow, "School of the-"  
"I know, the cat." Gaël interrupted him, "What the fuck are you doing here?

John hesitated for a moment, "I, um, hiding sir."

"From who?"

John sighed, "Bounty hunters." He began standing up again, shoulders slumped, "My master had many debts he owed to a man in Novigrad. After he died they came to me. I had no way of paying them, so I've been running."

"You stole my trophy then, in hopes of making a few crowns?" Gaël asked looking at the young witcher.

"You must understand sir, I have no real means of hunting." He motioned to the silver sword, "I took that off my... My master. After he died."

Gaël remembered that look. The sadness, the loss. "Boy, how old are you?"

"Nineteen sir... I think, older perhaps."

Gaël sighed heavily, "For fucks sake." He reached to his side, and pulled out a five crowns and tossed them to John, "Pick 'em up. That'd be your fee."

"Fee for what?"

"Passage to Kedwen." Gaël pointed eastward, "Go through the mountains and head north afterwards. There be a witcher fortress their, Kaer Morhen. If I'm right, and I might not be, there are a group of witchers there. They'll take care of you. Give you proper training, and sturdier gear."

"But the-"

"Bounty hunters don't leave the coastal realms, and trust me, they won't follow you to Kaer Morhen."

John nodded, and finally met Gaël's gaze, "Thank you, sir."

"Call me Gaël." The witcher correct. "No more thieving. Earn your boon, for now on. Got it?"

John nodded, he motioned to the manor, "Come, I'll show you where I put the trophy."

Dawn was now breaking when John gaze Gaël his trophy back. The ursine witcher returned the assistance John had given him with some trail rations he had and a canteen of water. After fixing John's broken nose Gaël gave him his extra swallow, just in case.

"Good luck on the path." John said as he exited the manor.

"Aye, good luck."


	4. Plague of Madness, Act 1

_Temeria, Spring 1278_

The sun began to crawl its way up the horizon. Rays of light peaked over the tall trees of the woods surrounding the town of Longdale. The rooster awoke and proceeded to herald the morn as it always did, crowing from atop a barn near the edge of town. The farmers had long been at work before the rooster crowed, tending to their crops and preparing for the planting of the spring crop.

The one exception was the orchard, just on the edge of town, right along the main road toward Vizima. The orchard was left looking empty, save of course for the heavily weighted down apple trees. Big, juicy red apples hung from the branches, ripe for the taking. Yet there wasn't a single farm hand inside the orchard.

There was a witcher inside the orchard, however.

Alder, of the cat school, was fast asleep on a branch of one of the apple trees. He lightly snored as the rays of sunlight begun to bathe his face in an orange glow. He frowned, turning away from it, wishing to sleep just a little while longer. Alder's sleep was spoiled by a wagon hurrying by. It was loud, tearing down the road, the driver barely able to keep it on course as the carriage skidded past the orchard, forcing the witcher to wake.

"Hey! Asshole!" He tore an apple from the tree and threw it at the noisey passer by. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

Alder groaned as he layed back down on the branch. Realizing he wasn't going to get anymore sleep, he decided to grab breakfast. The witcher took his time choosing the right apple, his hand hovered over the many, many choices before finally settling upon the biggest, juiciest apple he could find. Taking a large bite into the apple, the witcher kept his ear to the edge of the orchard.

On the east side of the orchard, over a fence, was a dense forest. From it came the reason why he was here: ghouls. Even though the war had ended nearly a year ago necrophage were still a nuisance. With no battlefield carnage left to feed them, they had to resort to feeding on the living. Ghouls had recently attacked this orchard, killing two workers and wounding a third.

Alder was fortunate enough, as the witcher put it, to be passing through when these attacks occurred. The ealdorman promised to pay the witcher handsomely if he could rid the ghouls from the town orchard. All Alder asked for was the orchard to be closed and a swine that was about to be slaughtered.

The witcher hated putting anything to waste, especially such a fat swine. He estimated if he smoked the meat it could last him quite a long time, though Alder needed it to lure the ghouls out. As the name implies, necrophage prefer rotting, dead carcauses as opposed to living flesh. That didn't mean they wouldn't go after living people, but they'd much rather eat the dead; they didn't fight back. As such, the dead pig would do nicely as bait.

Alder worried that the smell of the orchard would mask the carrion stench, but his ears told him otherwise. From the east he could hear them. These ghouls were a cautious bunch. Alder could hear them pacing before the fence separating the orchard from the forest for a good while before they finally committed in jumping over it. By their footsteps and by how many jumped over, Alder wagered it was a pack of eight.

"See. Old man promised me ten gold ahead, that means, eighty gold. Not a bad pay day." As he mused on what to spend his gold on, he slowly removed his silver blade from its scabbard.

It wasn't any ordinary silver sword; it was a single edge blade, with a curved tip. A falchion, as it was called by the blacksmith who forged it for Alder. He held it with great care, making sure the sharp edge was facing slightly away from him. The witcher's eyes looked over to the bait, then over to the rest of the orchard.

Alder could see them now. The four legged, man faced, pale skinned necrophages crawled toward the pig carcass. One sniffed it carefully, before biting into it. Another jumped in, grabbing the pig by one of it's hooves and pulling it away from the already feasting ghoul. Clearly angered by the packmate taking its food, the first beast sunk its teeth into the pig attempting to pull it away. The rest circled around the first two. Some tried to get into the feeding frenzy while others scurried around looking for anything else.

During this, Alder slowly rose from his prone position into a standing one effortlessly, not even disturbing the tree branch he had been previously sleeping on. He came down to a crouch, and then took a big, loud bite of the apple, grabbing the attention of the ghouls. Some turned and growled at the witcher, others were still focused upon the swine. One ran up to the tree the witcher was in and begun to claw and tear the bark of it as the ghoul tried to climb up.

"Want a bite?" Alder mockingly asked, holding the apple toward the ghoul. It replied with a growl and clawed at the witcher in the tree. "Well fuck you too."

The witcher then took one last bite from the apple, and threw the rest of it at the ghoul. It only caused the necrophage to blink, but that was all Alder needed it to do. Before it could even react the witcher had already leapt from the tree branch and brought his blade into its back. The witcher heard the ghoul's lung collapse. Twisting and pulling out from the ghoul, the witcher finished it off with another stab, this one into its head, causing the ghoul to struggle for a moment, then fall limp.

Alder now had the pack's full attention.

The next ghoul came to strike at Alder. Pouncing at the witcher, maw ready to bite, claws ready to shred, the ghoul roared; Alder ducked and rolled out of its way. The necrophage slammed into the tree, causing a few apples to fall from it. Alder replied with a horizontal slash, badly cutting into the ghoul's hip; Alder completed the motion with a flourish, piercing through the beast's side. Twisting and pulling the blade free, Alder worried not of knowing it was dead, and instead focused on the next ghoul. This one was smarter; it stayed low to the ground and kept its distance instead of mindlessly charging in. Alder's slashes were met with dodging and weak-yet-wild attempts at parrying, but as soon as its skin made contact with the silver, it yelped in pain. This gave Alder the window he needed.

It was three steps- three steps that had been drilled into him from years of training. First: Alder side stepped past the ghoul, ending the move on his left foot. Second: putting his weight now on the right, the witcher slashed the ghoul. The strike was powerful enough to topple the ghoul, putting it on its back. Third: flipping the sword into a reverse grip and placing his other hand onto the pommel, he brought the sword down into the ghoul's chest. Twist. Pull. The ghoul was now dead.

"Three down." He spun the sword back into it's normal grip. "Five to go."

Wanting to be on the attack now, Alder charged the nearest ghoul, which saw his charge and decided to meet him. Reaching to the belt that ran across his chest, the witcher threw a small silver dagger, which lodged itself into the ghoul's eye. Caught off guard, the ghoul tripped and fell into the ground. Before it could pick itself up, Alder precisely nicked the artery which ran across the back of the necrophages neck.

Two more tore through the orchard; Alder was forced to roll out of the way, catching one passing by with a slash across its flank. Another, lagging behind the rest, tried grab onto the witcher by his boot. Alder side stepped and brought his other steel toed boot into its skull. The blow flipped the ghoul onto its back, but Alder couldn't finish it. Hearing the other's paws tearing across the orchard again, Alder readied himself to dodge once more.

This time the witcher opted to mix it up a little. Rolling out of the way, he waited right as all three ghouls were as tightly packed as possible. Acting quickly, Alder made the Sign Aard. From his free right hand a gush of wind swept the ghoul's off their feet. One was sent into a apple tree, crunching as it impacted. The other two were sent tumbling through the rows of trees.

Alder took a deep breath in, feeling the strain of using the Sign, then threw himself toward the ghouls. Still dazed from the Aard, the ghouls could barely react. The first to fall wasn't even aware of the witcher until the falchion had split its neck wide open. The ghoul flailed around in anguish; the witcher knew it was gone, and now turned his attention to the last ghoul. It already had rolled back onto its legs when Alder struck it. The witcher felt only a little resistance as he took the ghoul's head clean off. Free from its body, the head bounced across the orchard a few times before halting at the base of a tree.

Alder waited a few moments, eyes scanning the distant tree line. He listened for movement beyond his sight, and smelt the air for any more foul smelling necrophage. The witcher did this until he was satisfied that the pack was dead. Alder then put his sword back into its sheath; the fight was over.  
He then took the rope his belt and got to work collecting heads. Alder took out a butchers knife and begun work chopping the heads of ghouls off. It was a long, boring process for the witcher. Alder was careful to make his strikes clean, though that didn't stop him from getting his knife caught in a bone or tendon every so often. Looping the rope through the neck and out the mouth of each ghoul Alder created what looked like a very macabre bracelet of necrophage heads which he held on his shoulder.

"Now to get paid," Alder paused, and sniffed himself. "And maybe a bath."

With a wide smile of a man who just got done with the work day, the witcher exited the orchard, practically skipping. The ghoul heads swaying as he did this. The sight alone caused many of the townspeople to gasp in horror. Alder even heard a women faint as he came down the main road toward the ealdorman's house. As the witcher walked through the gate leading into the house, gardens flanking the entrance, an old, bald man came out, looking excited.

"Hey!" Alder called out, he grabbed the ring of heads of his shoulder and held them up, "Got eight of the fuckers for you."

The ealdorman wordlessly came forward, he looked over the heads for a moment, almost as if he was fascinated by them. Alder could level with the old man; it wasn't everyday that normal men got to see monsters up close. The ealdorman now gazed onto the witcher, a smirk on his face.

"Knew I could depend on a witcher."

"Always can." Alder said setting the ring of heads carefully on the ground, "Now, that'll be eighty crowns."

"Aye, I'll get your pay. Wait here."

The ealdorman disappeared into the house. Alder meanwhile sat on the fence bordering the ealdorman's property. He passed the time by playing with his knives, practicing various tricks with them. Alder then heard someone coming up from behind him.

"Sir! Sir!"

Alder turned to the source of the plea. Standing behind the fence was a girl, he estimated to be in her late teens. She had long, straw like hair, that framed a narrow, freckled face. Green eyes looked at the witcher, eyes holding a gaze of desperation, the same a drowning man gave to a sailor on a boat. Alder's eye raced up and down the young girls form.

"I'm not a sir, just a witcher."

"Well please master witcher, do you have a moment?"

Alder could sense that the girl was clearly perturbed by something, and it wasn't his mutant gaze. Before the girl could speak Alder heard the doors to the ealdorman's house open. Turning, he saw the old man come out, sack of crowns in hand, and a sour look on his face.

"Girl! Scram! I told you to leave, didn't I?"

"Please! I need to speak to the witcher!" She spoke again.

"He isn't interested in your, 'plague of madness'. Go to Vizima or Novigrad. Find a plague doctor or even a mage if you can pull him or her out of their hiding hole."

"Plague of madness?" Alder narrowed his gaze back to the ealdorman .

The old man shook his head, "This girl-"

"Alix! My name is Alix you walking corpse!"

At that the ealdorman threw the sack of gold to the ground, crowns flying everywhere. He then moved at a remarkable speed for a man of his age, a look of fury on his face. Fists raised above his head, the ealdorman rushed toward the girl, cursing and ranting all the way.

"Listen hear you vagrant! Off my land before I beat you to death! You whore-"  
"Hey!" Alder stepped in between the two, placing a firm hand on the ealdorman's chest. "No need for that shit." He exchanged glances between both Alix and the ealdorman . "What's this about a plague?"

"Master witcher," Alix begun folding her hands together. "My village, just east of here, has been gripped by a plague of madness."

Alder slowly nodded, "Look, I know you mean well and all, but I'm a witcher, not a doctor."

"Which means he won't be able to help you girl!" The ealdorman stepped in. "Now scram! You-"

Alder put a finger into the ealdorman 's face. "Stow it!" He turned back to Alix. "Sorry lass, but I ain't going to be much help. Vizima is a few days ride west, and if you feel like riding more, Oxenfort is a week's ride northeast. I know-" A sack of gold interrupted him, thrown by Alix. The witcher caught it mid air. He opened the sack and smiled at the crowns stored within them.

"Fifty crowns. Will that be enough to sway your mind?" Alix asked frantically.

"Normally I'm insulted when someone interrupts me, but I'll forgive you, this time." Alder put the pouch in his satchel.

"So, so you'll take it?" Alix asked excitedly.

"You paid me." Alder said with a grin. "I'm obligated to assist you now." He then turned to the ealdorman . "Now, my reward from you sir."

The old man sighed, walked over, grabbed the thrown sack of gold, and stared at the witcher for a moment before tossing the coin at Alder, which the witcher caught.

"Go on, looks like you have another job, freak." The ealdorman said bitterly.

Alder raised his eyebrows at the comment. "Well. Guess I won't be welcomed here." He then turned Alix. "Well, why are we standing here, let's get moving."


	5. Plague of Madness, Act 2

"So, mind telling me how far we're riding?"

The witcher and Alix had been riding for quite sometime. Alder estimated, judging by the sun, they'd been riding for four, five hours. The two had been silent through most of the ride. Alix wanted to get back to the village, White Run, as quickly as possible, saying she'd explain everything once they got there. Alder, personally, felt that he should know more, but had held his tongue. Something about the girl made him think twice. The witcher had met counts and lords that had the same aura he felt around her; she was meant to rule.

"Almost there, master." Alix said looking over her shoulder at the witcher. "Remain patient."

"Then perhaps, if you would be so kind, to explain why you choose a witcher over a plague doctor?"

Alix didn't speak.

"Well?" Alder pressed her. "I would like to know."

"And why would you?" Alix asked the witcher, this time not looking over her shoulder. "Why so curious?"

"Because I'm being paid to look into a plague." Alder spurring his horse, Lucy, forward to catch up to Alix. "You're spending an awful lot of coin on a man who slays monsters, not plagues."

Alix sighed, she spoke, eyes still looking forward. "When I was a babe, I was really sick. The doctors said I would die before the seasons end. My parents, they were so desperate, they turned to a witcher." Alix now gazed toward Alder, looking wistfully. "He cured me. I don't know how but he did."

"You were probably cursed." Alder explained. "Sounds like a nithing if I've ever heard of one. Though, doesn't mean I haven't seen my fair share of pox. I will still give it a look, but I can't give any promises."

The girl gave him a faint smile. "Thank you master."

"Don't call me that." Alder replied with a smirk. "That was my master's name."

The rest of the ride was done in silence. The pair made their way through the Temerian countryside at a brisk trot. Alder liked this side of the country; it was close to the mountains, far from Novigrad or Vizima. The air was crisp, and the waters were much cleaner on this end of the Pontar. The trees changed from the wide oaks to tall, skinny pines as they rode through the forests.

All the while Alder kept his ears and eyes open for any signs of monsters. Bruxae were known to inhabit the deep woods of eastern Temeria. The witcher recalled that the easy way to know if you were entering bruxae territory was if you could hear several different song birds at once. These vampires were know to keep them as pets and often use them as alarms. The birds would fly away upon someone coming through, alerting them to prey.

Luckily for him and Alix, the witcher heard only crows, and a circling falcon, looking for mice. The witcher did hear a forest troll shambling in the distance. Alder wasn't certain how far it was off, but it was no threat. They were far too slow to catch a witcher and a young girl who were on horses.

The witcher turned his attention back to Alix. Personally he was impressed by her. Women who took action always intrigued him. Although, something about her behavior tipped him off that this might not be in her nature; how she sat in the saddle, how her eyes were constantly scanning the forest, all of it made her seem like she was more a homely, farm girl than an adventurous maiden.

"If you're worried about monsters, the only ones in this wood are trolls."

Alix didn't seem to change from her current mood, "Yes, I know. Auntie always told me to stay clear of these woods."  
"Ride often?"

Alix nodded, "Aye, Auntie sends me on errands."

That told Alder a lot. The witcher assumed that she was nervous because of the ride through the woods. Now it seemed clear she was nervous about something else. It was clear to Alder why Alix was so nervous.

"Guessing Auntie is one who is sick."

Alder didn't want to ask the question but he knew it had to be asked. From what he understood of disease it could be spread by close contact with those who had fallen ill. Meaning if it was a loved one of Alix, she could be infected. Which would explain her hurry and her wanting to get this all done. After a long silence she finally spoke.

"Yes." Alix replied with a sigh. "You see, I'm actually Redania. My mother was an alchemist, my father a simple farmer. Then Radovid came to power, and..."

"I can guess the rest." Alder halted her. "No need to open up old wounds."

Alix nodded. "Auntie Clare is the only family I have left in this world. I need to protect her. It's why I got you. No plague doctor, no matter how much gold I throw at him or her is going to care about some backwater in Temeria, and all the mages are either dead or in hiding. You're the only hope we have, witcher."

Alder did not reply. How could he, he thought to himself. Sure, the witcher mused, he could act humble and pretend it was nothing. Though that would also give the impression that he could solve Alix's problem. Deep down, the witcher felt as if this would be another contract gone nowhere. On the other hand, he couldn't bring himself to try to bring her hopes down. Normally he would do it to any client, but something was different about this one. The witcher decided it was time to move on.

"Tell me, how long has this 'plague' been affecting the village?"

"Two days." Alix was quick to reply. "The first to be affected a fisherman, Jon."  
"Is he still alive?"

Alix shook her head. "He died last night, it was what drove me to seek you out."

Alder nodded. The witcher made the mental note of how long the plague took to take a grown man's life. If he was a fisherman he was definitely in good health, and more than likely of a youthful age. Alder made two assumptions because of this. One: Alix wasn't infected. If she was she would already be showing symptoms. Two: Alix's auntie was running out of time. If Jon died so quickly, her auntie would probably have less time, assuming Alder's assumptions were correct.

"What are the symptoms?"  
"Crying fits, seeing things that are not there, cold sweats, and a thirst for water." Alix listed them out carefully. "Vomiting as well."

The second to last caught Alder's attention the most, it was an odd symptom. Though he always heard from medics and doctors that the best solution to a fever was to drink purified water and to stay one's hand from alcohol, he hadn't heard of a pox that caused such a symptom. Crying fits and hallucinations were also unusual. Though now that he thought of it, some things were tieing together. Cold sweats, and vomiting could lead to dehydrations, which would explain the thirst.

"Hmm." Alder mused for a moment. "Could be Black Water Sickness."

"What's that?" Alix asked, clearly perturbed by the name of the illness.

"Contracted in swamps in Temeria. The illness causes one to lose all the fluids in their body, killing them. Could explain the thirst, along with the cold sweats and vomiting."

"Is there a cure?" Alix asked excitingly.

"Now hang on." Alder begun, raising a hand. "Just 'cause I think it might be Black Water, doesn't mean it is. Some of the pieces don't fit. The crying fits and the hallucinations are what's throwing me off."

Alix slumped down again looking saddened by Alder statement.

"Now, now!" Alder raised a hand. "Don't get disheartened. Doesn't mean I can't try. I need to see them, the sick; then I'll know for certain."  
Alix's posture straightened up a little, a small smile forming. "Thank you, master witcher." She turned to the road. "We're here."

Alder turned to see the village; it wasn't quite what he expected. It was rather large, the majority of the homes settled upon the creek which ran through a clearing in the woods. The homes were quite quaint as well, most made of stone, and were painted in vibrant colors. It was a change of pace from the almost depressing villages of Velen and Ikor. The witcher saw on his approach that a small welcoming party awaiting him and Alix. Two armed men and whom he assumed to be the village ealdorman, judging by the rather bright blue doublet he wore. The witcher looked over to Alix with a puzzled expressions, something told him Alix did this without telling anyone.

"Alix Bennett!" The rather young village ealdorman yelled out. "You disobeyed my decree! 'None shall leave the village 'till Lawrence's return!"

"That fat man can barely ride his own wife! How do you expect him to get to fucking Vizima!"

Alder fought tooth and nail to not fall off his horse laughing, and fought even harder to maintain his solemn, 'witcher-on-the-Path' expression. Now he fully understood why he couldn't hurt this girl in anyway, she was simply too much fun. The 'welcoming party' met Alix and Alder half way from the village on the road. The guards flanking the ealdorman were in fine studded leather armor, brandishing long spears and wide wooden shields.

"Watch your tongue young lady!" The ealdorman turned his attention to Alder. "And who is this? We cannot let anyone else catch the pox!"

Alder raised his right hand, as if he was doing a Nilfgaardian salute, to reveal his School of the Cat medallion wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet. He wore it this way, with the chain hanging low, to conceal it; he had decided long ago that this was good for professional purposes.

"Don't believe I'll be catching the pox anytime soon." Adler replied with a toothy grin.

"A witcher!" One of the guards said in shock.

"What is the meaning of this?!" The ealdorman demanded from both Alix and Alder. "Answer me?!"

Alder decided to speak. "Alix here hired me to look into your, 'plague of madness'."

The ealdorman snarled. "No need! Last thing we need is a freak like you poking around."  
"Bryan please!" Alix pleaded with the ealdorman. "Alder here has seen many a pox and blight. He can help us!"

"I will not entertain the thought! We wait for Lawrence's return!" Bryan said making a sweeping motion. "Now be gone, witcher!"

Alder narrowed his gaze at the ealdorman. "So let me get this straight: You want to throw away a chance to cure your village of a pox, just because that cure comes from a 'freak'?"

Bryan was silent, his visage changed from an angry scowl to a confused frustrated man. It was clear to Alder that the ealdorman truly cared for his village, but also held a clear prejudice against non-humans. A common occurrence in Temeria, one that Alder counted on encountering. Alder continued on.

"Let me look at the ill. If I can't figure it out, I'll leave before the sun sets. If I cure them, then you'll not have to worry."

Bryan nodded, then looked up to the witcher. "You have one turn of the hourglass." The ealdorman finally said holding his index finger up. "That is all."

Alder hopped off his mare, Lucy, and came up to the ealdorman, and extended a hand. "You have my word."  
Bryan snorted and turned around, and begun walking back to the village. "Just do your job quickly." He said looking over his shoulder.

Alder then flipped his hand around and extended his middle finger. He then turned to Alix who looked embarrassed. The witcher had seen that look before; the look of a person ashamed of their own people. Alder had seen that look on many of his brothers, even seen it in reflections of himself from time to time.

"Master witcher," Alix spoke up, not making eye contact with the witcher. "I'm-"

"No need to be sorry." Alder interrupted Alix, he spoke softly, adopting the tone of one consoling a close friend. "Your ealdorman is merely attempting to keep his people safe."

Alix looked up and smiled at the witcher.  
"There, see, a smile." Alder said grinning. He rubbed his gloved hands together. "Now, time to get to work. Only have an hour. Where is the barn they're being kept?"

"Come! I'll show you."

Alix guided the witcher through the village. Alder felt the gazes of the villagers on him. Though he did not let that bother him; he continued through the town, a confident look on his face. During this walk through the village he kept an eye out for anything, unusual. Any signs that may point him to a cause of the plague. Rats, crows, any animal known to carry disease. The absence of these animals meant that black water was a very likely candidate for what was causing the villages woes.

Finally, Alix and Alder arrived at the barn. A town guardsmen stood before the barn door; through it, Alder was able to see about a dozen or so men and women, two children, laying on the straw of the barn, heads propped up by pillows or more straw.

"What do you two want?" The guardsmen held his spear a little more tightly as the pair approached the barn. "You want to get the plague or something?"

"Think we're good on that." Alder begun stepping up to the guardsmen, showing his medallion. "Been hired to give the sick a once over. See if I can figure out what's wrong with them."

"A witcher?" The guardsmen tilted his head. "Bit overkill if ye ask me, but I ain't paid to answer. True that you lot can't catch the pox?"

"In a sense." Alder didn't wish to explain witcher mutations, he'd waste his hour. "Mind letting me through?"

The guardsmen nodded. "Go right in. No funny business."

"I'm coming with you." Alix said seriously.

Alder turned raising a hand. "This is where you stop. You've been helpful to these people, no reason to get yourself infected."

"But-"

"No buts, alright?" Alder said in an almost fatherly tone. "Stay here, maybe you and-" He looked over to the guardsmen.

"Oh, Tom's my name master."

"Tom, can get to know one another." Alder patted Alix on the shoulder. "Be back in minute."

Alix let out a sigh. "Fine. But, please... Be quick."

"Being timed, kinda have too." Alder said with a grin.

Passing by the guard Alder got a good look at the ill. The witcher noticed how pale they were. Their skin was white as a sheet, glistening with sweat. He came to the first on the left, a women, around Alix's age. She was shivering, though it was mildly warm in the barn, the humidity was high due to the nearby river. Taking off his glove the witcher felt her forehead. Ice cold. The witcher clicked his tongue a few times, an odd habit he had that helped him concentrate. Alder then noticed the bucket next to her, filled with vomit. He took a wiff of it, and shook it around.

"Watery." The witcher observed while looking into the bucket. "Strange. Almost as if they were all-"  
That's when it hit him.

Alder had this affliction long ago. It was no disease however, something worse. He then checked the others, all too had buckets of the same contents. Several leapt in their sick beds when his mutant eyes met there own, frightened gazes. He knew what it was now. Alder wasted no more time, he exited the barn, making eye contact with Alix as soon as he was out.

"Your water supply, gonna need to see it." Alder attempted to remain calm, he had a theory but the witcher needed one last piece of evidence.

"Follow me." Alix said, she could see his urgency.

Leading him down to the creek she made a sweeping gesture over it. Wordlessly Alder stepped into the creek. He stared into it, focusing, looking for what he hoped not to find. Everything was quiet around him. No birds. No wind. No Alix pleading to know what he was doing. Nothing else matter besides what was in that creek.

A sparkle.

Using his mutated reflexes he scoped up the shimmer in the water. Alder held the water in his hand up closely to his eyes. The witcher's looked changed to a grimace one would give an old enemy. Hatred in his eyes, he released the water from his hand, dusting it off. The witcher turned to Alix, who looked worried.

"What-"

"Know what it is." Alder revealed to Alix.  
Her mood changed to one of excitement. "So, can you make a cure?"

"Cure is to give those people as much water as possible." Alder said to Alix. "Boil it, let it cool, then give it to them. I'll take care of what's causing it."

"Causing it?" Alix asked confused.

"This is a human borne plague," Alder said bitterly. "Worst kind..."

The witcher followed the creek up stream, cursing and grumbling the whole way. He knew exactly what it was, and what it had done to the village. Not since Novigrad, when he was a common cut throat for some 'lordling' for a time in the city of sin, had Alder seen the stuff. He'd sworn off it. It didn't take for the witcher long to find the object of his hunt.

A fisstech lab.

The lab looked like it was once a fisherman's hut. Built over a sandbar, which lead onto the creek, it seemed to be empty. Near the creek Alder spied several discarded crates on the sandbar. The white powder narcotic leaking into the creek. The mystery was now solved, but Alder did not leave. The door was open, it hanging by only one of it's hinges. Alder slowly approached to the lab, his gaze fixated intently on the door, nearly missing the wagon tracks on the ground.

"They passed right by me..." Alder muttered looking at the tracks.

His eyes locked back on the lab, a tinge of fear could be seen on the witcher's face. Alder's hands were firmly tightened into a fist. He could smell it, that sweet aroma beckoned him to the crates. Before he knew what he was doing he was looking down at the crates full of fisstech, hand twitching.

"Maybe... Maybe just..."

Alder's hand, seemingly, reached down to the open create, scooping up a hand full of the powdery drug. It was almost to his chin when his visage changed from a blank one, to a rage filled one. Angrily he tossed the drug from his hand. The witcher then tore the crates from their place in the creek, landing with a thud on the sand bar.

"Not again! Not again! Not again!"

Alder screamed those words over and over, his hand spewing forth a stream of fire, engulfing the fisstech in flame. This was no ordinary Sign of Igni, he was putting his all into it. The flames screamed from his hand, burning white hot. The sand surrounding the fisstech began to turn to glass as he focused all he had into the sign. Finally, he felt himself collapse onto the ground, his vision blurry; he had overdone it. Alder felt light headed, and cold, yet it had been so warm earlier.

Then he heard the riders.

They would be on him before he knew it. Reaching into his rough sack he pulled out a specialty potion; stallion decoction. The potion restored a witchers vitality for a time until he could get out of the fight. Alder had spent most of stamina casting the sign. The witcher fumbled the potion with his shaky hands.

"Fuck..." He groaned weakly.

Alder scooped the potion off the ground, popped the cork, and chugged the lime green liquid. It burned. That's the best way he could describe it. It burned its way down his throat, and he got into a kneeling position, bracing himself for the effects. The witchers head jerked up, eyes open and irises wide. His veins began to turn an obsidian black, his skin began to turn to a sickly pale. Alder gritted his teeth, his hands were clenched so tightly his fingernails began to dig into his palms. Finally the worst had passed; his head came back down to normal, and he began to feel his stamina returning. The witchers eyes refocused, he was able to see clearly now.

Clear enough to see the six armored knights of the Flaming Rose in front of him.

"Hello, freak."


	6. Plague of Madness, Finale

**AN: SO! I completely forgot I had this account XD So here you are, with no further interruptions!**

"Well? You going to talk, mutant?"

Before the witcher stood a quite formidable foe; Knights Errant of the Flaming Rose. The one addressing him carried a Novigrad forged long sword, probably one of the last to ever be forged their. He was clad in mail, the leather plates which cover covered the holes in the armor were dyed a dark red to match the sigil proudly displayed on his chest. The only other one to note was a large man, wearing a worn and torn cuirass, with a predominant neck guard, obscuring his jaw. What really made him stand out was the two handed, double bladed, axe he wielded.

Alder hadn't planned on this. How could he? Anticipating knights of the Flaming Rose to show up at a fisstech lab was not something you could do. Alder hadn't been 'out of the game' for that long, he still remembered the gangs, the families who ran the trade. Though knights, that was new, and something he didn't like. These weren't common cut throats that he could scare away with a blast of igni, these were knights errant of the Order of the Flaming Rose. Fanatics of the Eternal Fire, and proud servants of Radovid, or were.

Alder recalled hearing that the church, and a large portion of Radovid's army, had gone underground after the fall of Redania. Though the witcher thought that was just talk. Something merchants would say to justify the loss of a shipment of goods, or something the Black Ones would tell young recruits to keep them on their toes. Though now, Alder knew it wasn't.

He winced in pain again, the potion needed time to take full effect. The pain he felt earlier was just stage one. Stage two would take seven minutes to fully go process, and then he'd be fully capable of taking them down.

' _Need to buy my time.'_ Alder thought to himself.

"Blessings on ya'll." Alder greeted them, his voice was pained, the potion still taking a lot from him. His mutated eyes stared down the one with the crossbow. "You have clean hands."

The knights looked at eachother, confused. The one with the crossbow, however, looked frightened at that observation. This grew Alder's smirk grin, into a wild smile. The witcher tilted his head, looking the man over.

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything, freak?" The one with the long sword, the leader of the group by Alder's wager, asked.

"Why, has to do with everything." Alder's gaze turned to the leader. "Tell me, how long have you been doing this?"

"What-"

"Fisstech. How long have you been dealing this shit?" Alder asked interrupting the knight errant.

"What does it matter to you?" He asked bringing his long sword into a two handed grip.

"Not much. But your friends clean hands. That's more interesting than me."

The knight squinted at the witcher. "How?"

"Clean hands. Means he's washed them. Only two people wash hands: those who are about to eat, and those who've been dipping their finger into the fisstech."

Alder now watched as the whole house of cards begun to fall. The lead knight then turned to the one next to him, who had a similar look on intrigue. The lead knight then walked past the others and came face to face with the twitching crossbow wielded, visor still up, to allow icey blue eyes to stare down cowardly yellow eyes.

"Been noticing you've been twitchy, as of late." The long sword wielder said to the crossbowman. "Mind explaining yourself, Grant?"

"Don't know what 'yer on 'bout sir." The crossbowman said point his weapon down. "I'm just 'little nervous going into battle, y'know."  
"No I don't." The long sword wielder pressed into his subordinate. "During the war you were never this twitchy, not even during the battle of Novigrad."

"But it's a witcher!"

"Come off it Grant! It's one, fuckin' witcher. We can kill one fuckin' witcher." The knight errant yelled at.

"Arnold, come off 'em." The double-bladed axe wielder stepped in between them. "You two going at it won't get our fisstech back."

"Shut it Stephen. Ain't your place." Arnold yelled back at Stephen.

"My place? My fucking place is to serve the Eternal Fire, just like you, and to restore Rediana." Stephen bit back.

"Oh fucking here we go." Another spoke, arms crossed.

"Your fucking place, Stephen, is to serve the Eternal Fire, under me! I'm Knight Sergeant! You're but a Knight Errant. You take orders from me!" Arnold yelled back at the duel blade axe wielder.

"We are brothers of the Flaming Rose! We listen to each other! In the end, a sergeant should listen to his men!"

"And then what? Allow each man a vote? Order must be maintained!"

"At the expense of brotherhood?"

Alder's plan was working better than he thought. As the knights argued over who gave orders, and how they should be given, he begun to formulate a plan of escape. Though something nagged on him. Running away, while a good idea, would only allow them to go on and cause trouble. Angry armed men, with a grudge would go seeking vengeance, and Alder also factored in that White Run was only a half hours walk from here. The riders would go there first, and would find evidence of him being there.

Alder couldn't run, he'd have to kill them, here and now.

Here was good. The sand that covered the battlefield would favor the lightweight cat witcher, and it would trip and hamper the weighted down knights. The witcher needed to keep the fight close to the creek, where the sand was at its softest, and most wet. Alder didn't worry much of the crossbowman, he would be dealt with later.

The witcher looked them over once more: How they were positioned, what weapons, what stance they would use, how they would form up. Tactics and memories of similar situations flew through his head as Alder planned his attack. He would need to act quickly though, they had begun to wise up.

"Look," The knight sergeant finally got a handle on his troops. "We have a witcher, who burnt out fisstech. Forget this bickering!"

"Forget it? That's always what you say Arnold!" Grant finally spoke up, voice now strong, unwavering.

"Yes!" Arnold then drew his blade, and turned toward the witcher, visor still up. I said forget this, and focus-"

Arnold didn't finish his heroic speech. The knight sergeant instead let out a cry of pain. Falling to the ground the gathered knights looked down to see a throwing knife, tearing his cheek almost clean off. The gathered knights turned and saw Alder, now standing a large, single edge, steel blade in his left hand.

"Time's up." The witcher said with a wide grin.

The knights stood there, stunned. Three of them gave each other looks of shock; as if they were looking to the other for what to do next. Alder had hinged his bets that wounding the knight sergeant would cause confusion, all except the one he he wished to fight: The axe-wielding knight Stephen.

The knight tore across the creek bank towards the witcher; sand blasted up brilliantly with each thundering step as he closed with the witcher. Alder waited for the opportune moment to play his hand against him. Despite his exposed arms he was still to well armed for his liking; he would rather deal with him later.

Stephen held his axe with both hands, head trailing behind him when he brought a horizontal strike at the witcher. His strike sailed through were the witcher once stood; Alder had crouched low to avoid the strike. The witcher replied by tripping the knight; sending him forward. He then rose quickly and hit the passing knight with a Sign of Aard. This accelerated the knight even more, who was still propelled forward by his charge. This sent him sailing into the creek, landing in it with a splash.

Next came the other two swordsmen in studded leather. The first came with a high vertical strike, roaring as he brought the blade down. Alder deflected the blow with the flat of his blade, spun, and rammed his shoulder into the swordsmen. Alder heard the wind of the swordsmen lungs shoot out, he stumbled back. This gave Alder time to block a horizontal strike from the other, clinging it off the flat of his sword he flicked his großemesser across the exposed neck of the knight, blood spilling onto the sand.

The clicking of a crossbow alerted Alder to move, just in time to avoid being pierced by the crossbow bolt, who stood over his sergeant, aiming to protect him. Alder gave that little thought as he found himself battling against the previous swordsmen who he had shoulder slammed. The knight opened with a slash which the witcher simply avoided the slash, the knight then brought the sword into both hands attempted to stab the witcher through and through. Alder spun around the strike, then brought his own blade through the knights neck.  
As that knight fell, Alder heard the sloshing of water and the roar of an angry man. Alder turned to see the knight Stephen rejoining the fight. His strikes were more careful, he kept Alder at a distance, which put Alder at a disadvantage. The witcher consider attempting to break his strikes with igni, but he noted the knight was still wet from the quick swim he had in the creek, meaning it may not have much of an effect.

The crossbow clicked once more from knight Grant, this gave Alder an idea. He kept the crossbowman in his peripheral vision, and awaited for him to take aim. All the while he allowed Stephen's twin headed axe to swing by him. Finally, Grant took aim, and Alder made his move. During one of Stephen's slashes, the witcher bolted towards him, grabbed the knight by the exposed arm and turned him round. Alder heard the click, the whizzing of the bolt and the dull impact into the back of Stephen's breast plate. The knight let out a cry of pain, dropping his axe, he attempted to reach for the bolt, allowing Alder to slip his blade through his armpit and into his heart.

Slipping his blade out of Stephen, Alder didn't spare a glance at the fallen knight. Instead he was focused at the now rising knight sergeant. The sergeant turned to the crossbowman, who was already fleeing on horse. He yelled, or attempted at least, something at the fleeing knight; Alder couldn't make out what it was due to the hole in the man's cheek.

Nevertheless, knight sergeant Arnold rose from the ground, visor now down, sword drawn, shield raised. Alder spinned his blade around his hand once, rolled his arms, and slowly made his way to the knight sergeant. Crotched low he again entered a similar state he had when searching for the fisstech in the water. Nothing else mattered to him. In this moment, the world seem to fade away. The water in the creek seem to fade away, it could've dried up for all Alder knew. The wind gushing through the trees seem to stop, as if commanded by the gods to halt.

All the witcher focused on was the knight in front of him.

Arnold's breaths were heavy, pained. His movements were precise; his stance perfect, his shield raised to cover as much of his body as possible. The knight's sword was unflinching, pointed towards the witcher above the shield. Alder waited for the knight to strike.

That moment seemed to take forever to the witcher, but the knight finally struck. Dashing forward the knight's jab was blocked by the flat of Alder's sword. Though the witcher did not anticipate the shield bash, which knocked Alder off balance. He barely able to dodge the slash from the knight which was soon followed by another, leaving him exposed enough for Alder to try his luck. The jab was somewhat successful, though Alder could not follow through, Arnold slammed his shield into the witcher once more. Alder was better able to recover was able to block the next strike from the knight.

The witcher had to be patient, he need to wait for just the right moment. Arnold gave him that very moment; The knight went to take the witchers head, Alder ducked, slipped his sword through his guard and slashed the knife across his exposed hip. Arnold winced in pain, and that was all Alder needed. That flench gave Alder enough time to circle round the knight, land a savage kick to the back of Arnold's knee, bringing the knight down, which allowed Alder to stab, through his exposed collarbone.

For moment, Alder saw Arnold's pale blue eyes stare into his own mutant cats-eyes. Though he could not see his face, he could see his eyes, how wide they were, how his heart beated for a few more moments, before it slowed, and then came to a stop. He heard the knights last breath, before he fell limp. The witcher removed his sword form the knight, and allowed Arnold to fall into the sand.

Reality soon returned to Alder; a flood of sound and a return of color came to him as he took a moment to take stock of what happened. Five of the six knights were dead. He could vaguely hear the sixth's horse neighing as he spurred it on. Alder's killer insect was now shackled back into the pit in his mind; were it could no longer bother him. His gross messer in its sheathe his mind was focused on what to do next.

He started by walking over to the creek, and washing his hands in it. Alder's sword hand trembled subtlely; the potion was wearing off and he would need to rest soon. Splashing some water on his face he turned to walk back to the village, only to see Alix standing on the creek bank, her face pale and her eyes wide. First her gaze was fixated on the fallen knights, and the pools of blood surrounding them, then they came to Alder.

"What..." Alix begun to speak, yet along the way lost the words she was going to say. "What happened?" She finally managed, her voice was quite, meek even, a definite contrast to what she was earlier.

Alder struggled to find the right words himself. He didn't like killing men, and he did strike first, but he knew what would've happened if he didn't. Alder knew the Order of the Flaming Rose had it out for witchers after some witcher of the Wolf School... _"Reralt of Grevia?"_ Alder couldn't remember the wolf's name but knew he had killed the order's grand master. Thus leading to the Flaming Rose making it a point to lynch any witcher in arms reach.

"Turns out it was fisstech in your water." Alder found himself talking, though he found himself in the foreign potion of not knowing what exactly to say. "Found the lab, burnt it down, pissed of some fallen knights, and here we are." He said with an attempt at a grin.

Alix crossed her arms, looking over the carnage. "So... Then it wasn't a plague?" Alder nodded. "And the ill? Will they get better?"

Alder nodded. "Normally fisstech gives you a good high, but when ingested it gets them very sick. Give them plenty of water and keep them rested. They should be okay within a few days."

Alix smiled, she breathed a sigh of relief. She reached into the satchel on her person and tossed Alder another coin purse. The witcher caught it, held it in hand for a moment and put it in his satchel.

"Thank you, witcher." Alix said attempting to hide how overjoyed she was. "Your horse is tied up at my house. The one with the herb garden next to it."

Alder nodded. "Thanks for looking after her." He begun to walk back towards the village, Alix followed him. "She's a bit of a handful."

"Nearly bit me when I tried to guide her." Alix said with a hint of anger. "Though she came around, especially when I offered her a carrot."

"That'll do it, how I won the beast over." Alder said with a chuckle.

"So, what'll you do next?" Alix asked curious."

"Don't know yet." Alder confessed looking at the creek. "Heard of some contracts in Velen. May swing by their. Then their is always Novigrad. Black Ones still discovering wraiths in that ruin."

"Maybe you could stick around for a little while? The hen house is overcrowded, we're going to slaughter a few chickens." Alix purposed to the witcher, Alder felt her grow slightly closer to him.

He looked over his shoulder to see Alix had been watching him closely, a twinkle in her, he knew what that meant. Alder had seen that same look before, and knew exactly what it meant. It brought back fond memories that were accompanied by heart ache. He sighed.

"Maybe. I have to get back on the Path eventually."


	7. The Road, One Shot

_Kovir, Spring, 1278_

Ry woke with a start.

The witcher had long ran out of nightshade which was the only means for her to have a truly restful sleep. Ry was somewhat grateful she never remembered her dreams. From the sweat that accumulated on her brow, and the way her heart pounded and her breath heaved, she guessed they were never good. The witcher sat up in her bed roll, shivering for a moment before finally waking up.

Kovir during the spring was beautiful, no, stunning. The morning sun shined through the tall pines of the wood she and her stallion Grey had camped in. From her sitting position she could see a nearby pond. It was so blue it put the very sky to shame, and beyond it she could see the tall, grand mountains which yielded the mineral wealth of the kingdom she served.

Ry sighed in relief; she was back in the real world. Standing tall she walked past her horse, giving it a pat as she passed, and made her way to the pond. The witcher knelt before the pond, getting a good look at herself in the reflection. What looked back at Ry was a tired looking young woman, with strong imperial features: one associated with the decedents of counts and lords. Splashing water in her face and taking a few drinks, she closed her eyes and began to meditate.

Gael, her master, had prescribed her to meditate for one turn of the hourglass every morning, every evening, every day. Ry liked to meditate. It was more restful than sleep; the peace that it gave was something robbed of her long ago. The witcher did exactly what her master wished, one turn of the hourglass. Her eyes opened and took a good look at the mountains once more. A small smile grew on her face, as she settled upon staying here for just a little while longer.

Ry came to Grey again and retrieved from the saddle bag a book and a piece of charcoal which was wrapped in cloth for grip. Returning to the pound, she opened her book, revealing pages of sketches. Some were of people's faces Ry had found memorable- her master Gael for example, though she couldn't get the beard exactly right- and some of places- like the ruins of Kear Murdaróir that greatly intrigued her when she passed the old keep on the road. She opened the sketch book to a blank page, placed turned the hourglass over again and begun to draw the Graig Lwyd mountains.

The witcher could not capture color, but she did the best she could in disguising the snow covered peaks, and the rest of the mountains. Ry struggled with the fine lines of faces and people, she greatly prefered to draw the lands she traveled over. The way the light hit the mountains in the morn had tingled her muse many times over, to the point where she decided to cave in and draw them. She checked the hourglass and frowned that her time was up.

Dousing the flames she readied her horse for travel. Grey was a stubborn stallion, who only permitted Ry on his back. What's more, Ry was the only person Grey let near at all without bucking and thrashing. Long hours of training and many carrots had built a strong friendship, but neither had pacified Grey's wild nature; accordingly, Ry always tied him up outside any stable for fear of trouble. Mounting Grey, she did one last check over her camp site before spurring the stallion forward.

It was only a short ride through the woods before she was back on the highway, the Gold Coin Path. The wide, cobblestone, road ran from the Lan Exeter to Tretogor, in Redania. The road was the lifeline of Kovir, and of the Northern Realms. Wagons, ladened in gold, silver and other precious metals, made their way south to be sold in markets across Redania, Novigrad and even Temeria.

That was why Ry was here.

The road had to be cleared. Already patrols of guardsmen had gone up and down the highway once the snows had begun to melt securing the path from bandits, but they, unlike a witcher, were unequipped to clear the path of monsters. Ry was here to make certain that nothing sinister had taken stretches of the highway as their hunting grounds.

For the past month she had been on the road. Riding through the seemingly endless moors, which were only interrupted by flashes of thick pine woods, always on the lookout for beasts. This was her first 'contract' without her master's supervision, and that had put Ry on edge. After her trek south had been completed, however, and she began her ride north, she came to the conclusion that this was merely a test of her patience, though the witcher would still perform the task to the best of her ability.

Now, though, the tone quickly shifted.

The first sign something was wrong were the crows. Ry could see them, at least a dozen, circling near the road. A thicket of trees obscured what they circled from her view.

"Probably just a dead deer." Ry mumbled to herself. "What do you think Grey?" The stallion purred it's lips in what Ry believed to be a reply. She chuckled and patted the horse.

The witcher and the stallion made their way down the road, eventually entering the thicket. After passing through, she pulled the reins on Grey.

Blood; it filled the air.

Sure, she had smelt it before. She had felled many beasts, the stench of blood strong when she did. This was different though. This was human blood. Human blood always sent her to a dark place in her mind. The witcher nearly fell off her horse, and a terrible feeling washed over her. Voices whispered in her head.

" _We will make you strong!"_

Ry was in a waking nightmare. Heavy breathing, and a cold sweat.

Fear. It was something witchers were not supposed to be able to feel. The mutagens lessened its grip, from what she could understand from Gael's lectures. It made witchers arrogant, to feel invincible. Ry had felt that strength, seeing blood spill, hearing the screams and roars of monsters, feeling the rush of combat. Never was she scared of any monster.

But now she was terrified.

"Calm... It isn't real... All sound and fury... Nothing more..."

With a deep breath in, she spurred Grey forward. She directed the stallion toward the source of the scent, despite Grey's protests, who seemed to also detest the scent of blood. It didn't take long to find it. The witcher had already heard the crows cawing, but now she could see all of them. There were scores of them, all feasting on the carrion that Ry believed once was a caravan.

She was able to make out the wreckage of two wagons and one broken carriage still upright, lodged into a tree at the edge of the clearing. The wagons were smashed to bits, wooden fragments laid across the road and within the underbrush next to it. Their cargo was still present amidst it all, or at least much of it; this was not a robbery. Dismounting Grey, she tied the horse off and made her way closer to the destroyed caravan.

As soon as she closed the crows flew away, revealing the shattered remains of the members of the caravan. Ry was not squeamish but she couldn't help but feel slightly disturbed. The witcher had seen horrible maulings at the maws of hounds, men cut in twain by axe and sword, but this... This was different.

These men had been crushed, to put it lightly. The guards of the caravan, who were in plate mail, had been smashed inside the armor, blood oozing out from every crevice and crack. Others had been felled by a slash, tearing one poor man clean in half. Ry examined them carefully, looking for what beast caused this.

"Hmm, let's see," Ry said to herself, with a hint of anxiety to her voice. She knelt low, squinting at the claw mark of one victim; a fellow wearing a once fine yellow doublet and matching pants.

"Claw marks are too narrow to be a fiends. Though..."

She looked over her shoulder, looking at a smashed in armor chest plate of another victim.

"Clearly a big beast..."

Ry paused, deep in thought.

Standing tall again, the witcher slowly made her way around the shattered caravan. Ry was in deep contemplation, searching in her mind what sort of beast would cause so much damage. It was on the tip of her tongue, teasing her.  
"Help!"

Ry's hands went silver sword on her back, drawing it slightly from its scabbard, ready to fight. Her eyes were fixed on the source of the plea, the carriage. Ry did not react, instead she waited for it to call out again. The witcher focused her senses, listening intently.

"Is... Is someone out there?"

 _Clearly human, or elf,_ she thought to herself. Ry slid her silver sword back, and slowly, she approached the carriage, passively placing the same hand on the hilt of her steel sword that was at her hip. Listening closely she could clearly hear the heavy breathing of a person inside it. When she came within ten feet of it she finally spoke up.

"It's alright! You can come out now."

The carriage door slowly opened, and out stepped a middle aged man, wearing fine clothing. A scraggly black beard covered a pudgy face, and the blue eyes above it scanned the area frightfully. The eyes finally met Ry's and the man jumped, at first, then relaxed again.

"Thank you sir..." He paused, squinting at Ry. "I meant, ma'am."

Ry rolled her eyes, she took her hand off her sword, and adopted a less aggressive stance.

"Tell me, ma'am, are you a knight by chance?" The man asked slowly approaching Ry.

Ry shrugged, she didn't like revealing the fact that she was a witcher; it often made things harder than they had to be. "What happened here?"

"A beast! That's what happened!"

Ry sighed. "Can you maybe give a little more detail?"

"Well." The man put a hand on his flabby flank. "It had the head and horns of a goat. But was big as an ox."

"Ah, so a chort."

"A what?"

"A chort." Ry begun to explain. "Hideous beast. Tends to be very territorial. Probably why it decided to stomp on your caravan."

"Well, some fair warning would've been nice!" The man grew angry. "Why wasn't I warned about these beasts when we set off!"

Ry shrugged again. "Could've been forced off its land by something. Don't know what though... Winter does shake up the hierarchy..." Ry soon realized she was losing the man. "Look, just, uh, head down the road," -She pointed down the road heading north.- "A few miles, you'll run into a town, there you can get a horse."

"A few miles?! Do I look like a peasant?! Why not lend me your horse."

"Cause Grey will throw you off, doesn't like strangers." Ry replied flatly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my lord, I have a monster to kill."

"Now listen here you-"

Ry removed her hood, her mutant eyes now glaring at the man. "Beat it. Beast may come back for seconds."

At that the man began to briskly, then change to a full sprint down the the road. Ry internally sighed, she hated that. The witcher wasn't good with... people. The thought of having to deal with normal humans perturbed her greatly. She was a freak, she knew that. She knew how they would react. To Ry, it was useless to try to reason with humans. If it wasn't her height, or build that intimated people, it was her mutant eyes, or the medallion around her neck.

Ry shook her head. Enough of that, she thought to herself, back to work. The witcher scoured the scene of the attack for tracks which could lead her to the chort's nest. They tended to live in caves or thick groupings of trees. Though besides this grove, trees were in short supply in Kovir, and very few caves south of the mountains. That's what puzzled Ry, chorts rarely left the mountains. More than likely it was forced from its old nest, which was odd; few things could do that.

Ry did pick up on the trail, which, after investigation, was quite obvious. Toppled over trees and crushed underbrush tipped her off to where the chort begun its attack, and where it left. Strangely, the tracks leaving were on three legs rather than four.

"Could've been wounded..." She mused looking at the trail. "Nah, no blood... Might've taken one of the travelers."

The princess being taken by the beast, and the noble knight coming to her rescue; a fairy tale everyone had heard at least once, Ry no exception. Like all fantasies, there was a grain of truth to them. Chorts were know to take fallen prey to their nests for later meals. Sometimes the poor bastards would still be alive, too afraid to move, or simply unable to. The thought of being taken in such manner disturbed Ry.

Ry buried those thoughts quickly, the hunt was on.

The trail soon lead her out from the woods and into the moors which surrounded them. They were beautiful in their seemingly infinite sprawl across the horizon, only to be so rudely interrupted by the great Graig Lwyd mountains, their peaks still covered in snow and ice. Had she not been on the trail of a chort, Ry would more than likely had chosen to camp here, the beautiful vistas of Kovir always tingled her urge to draw.

Tracking on the moors was a much simpler task then in the thick woods. The trail was clear, chort's weren't known for being light footed, and the soft ground left by the rainfall two nights ago aided Ry greatly. The sun was now high in the sky, and Ry wagered it was midday when she finally spotted the nest.

Crotching low, the witcher slowly advanced up towards it, sword in hand. Her medallion did not hum, her eyes did not see the chort, nor did any smell or sound alert her to the beasts presence. What she did hear was breathing, coming from the nest. It was quick, yet quiet, barely audible to Ry's mutated hearing. Still holding her blade in hand, she finally reached the nest.

The nest itself was constructed with rocks, dirt, and the bones of previous meals. The smell emitting from it greatly offended Ry; the odor of an unwashed beast was the only sign that the chort had been here, recently too. Making one last approach to the nest she peered in to see what she feared the chort had done; taking a captive.

A thin, wavy brown haired woman looked to Ry with pale blue eyes, filled with fright. She was petrified, unable to move. Ry lowered her guard, brought the sword into a neutral position as to not raise alarm. She put a finger to her mouth to keep the women silent. She scanned the horizon for signs of the beast, and was satisfied that it was not near. Though now Ry had a new problem; helping the woman.

"W-who are you?" She whispered, her voice trembled with fear. "I-Is it near?"

"No." Ry said flatly. The witcher extended a hand to the woman. "Come. Get up. We need to move."

"W-w-what about the beast?"

Ry sighed, she needed the woman to be calm for their escape to be successful. "Chort must be out looking for food or something. Point is it ain't here, so we need to leave. Now."

The women hesitated for a moment before taking the witcher's hand. Ry pulled her up and helped her out of the nest. The women's blue and white dress had been ruined by multiple tears and stains of mud and blood, but not her own. Her arms quaked and her legs shook as she stood next to Ry, coming only to the witcher's bicep in height. The women strained her neck to meet the witcher's gaze.

"A-are you a witcher?"

Ry nodded. "Aye. Come, we must move." Ry motioned eastward. "We make a hard march, we can reach the road. I have a horse, we will make it to Damerell before nightfall."

"How did you-"

"I'll explain later, now we must move."

The two began a quick march through the moor. Ry kept a brisk pace, aiding the woman who was still clearly worn from the whole experience. She still trembled, her neck looking north; toward the foothills which seem to act as the precursor for the steep mountains. Ry caught on to the woman's concerned gaze.

"It went north?"

The women turned back to Ry. "What?"

"The beast; it went north?"

"Oh. Um, yes. Yes it did. I know not why but it-it went north."

"Then that's better for us, we're heading away-"

Ry then heard a scream.

It wasn't of a woman, or of a man, but a girl's. Ry jerked her head towards the source of the sound: back to the nest. Standing on the crest above the nest was a little girl with ashen hair, wearing a white nightgown. Ry, surprisingly could not make out the rest of her features. She squinted at the girl trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

"Was anyone else with you?"

The woman stared at Ry, confused. "N-No... I-I was the only one the beast took." She looked towards the way they had came. "W-What are you looking at? The beast! Is it coming for us?!"

Ry drew her silver sword, something about all of this unsettled her. The little girl disappeared behind the rise, she turned to the women. "Get back to the road. Run as fast as you can."

"What are you going to do?"

"Someone else is at that nest." Ry murmed. "Just go!"

The women did not stay any longer. Following the witcher's instructions she began a fast paced walk which broke out into a sprint. Ry watched the woman for a few moments before turning back to what caught her attention before: the little girl. She too broke out into a dead sprint, aiming to reach the nest before the chort could. Tearing through the moor Ry crested the rise and came to see-

Nothing.

All that was there was exactly how she had left it. The witcher looked confusedly around the nest, looking for any signs of the young girl.

But the chort had arrived.

First she heard it. Heavy, deep breaths, accompanied by pounding hooves drew her sight north. Ry's eyes met angry, hungry beastly eyes that stared at the witcher from about thirty, forty yards away. She cursed herself for not checking her medallion, nor stopping and listening for the beast.

The chort let out a feral roar as it dug its claws deep into the earth, readying itself for battle. Ry reached onto the belt that ran across her chest, holding her silver sword scabbard, and pulled out a vial of green liquid. She bit and pulled the cork off, spitting it out. Ry got one wiff of the potion and furrowed her nose.

"Thunderbolt. Why does it always smell like shit..."  
Downing the potion in one swig she felt her muscles tighten up, her body was filled with energy. Her face adopted a wicked smile as she turned back to the chort. Despite the energy coursing through her veins and the urge to slash the chort into bloody ribbons she needed to control herself. She begun to slow her breathing, her smile vanished as she returned herself to the calm, collected self she needed to be. The chort roared again, smashing the ground with it' claws. Ry readied herself, casting the Sign of Quen, then raised her silver blade holding it in both hands, and pointed towards the chort. Those few seconds of utter silence as the witcher and monster stared each other down felt like hours in Ry's mind.

Then it seemingly happened all at once.

The chort thundered across the moor, smashing its nest carelessly along the way. It bounded at the last step of the charge, claws outstretched to mawl the witcher. Ry felt the beast's breath as she barely able jump away from it's strike, slashing the chort as it landed. Quickly she rolled further away from the chort, giving herself distance to respond, but not enough for the monster to gain momentum. This played into her advantage as the chort widely clawed at her, opening itself up and allowing Ry to land minor strikes.

Ry then got cocky.

Thinking she was clever, the witcher attempted to feint then flank the chort. It succeeded, to a degree. Ry fiented, the chort sweeping where she was, but then brought the claw back, hard, slamming her with the back of it. The witcher shield that surrounded her cracked then bursted into a brilliant orange spectacle, which was accompanied by a shriek of pain. Ry laid on the ground for the briefest of moments, dazed, ears ringing. Her sword was out of her hands, she could see it, just out of reach. She turned, though her vision was blurry she could see the chort, charging towards her.

"Rylie?"

Ry then heard someone: a little girl. Standing a few yards away from her was the same girl that had spurred the witcher to return to the nest in the first place. Though Ry could not get a good look at her. Despite this something was all too familiar about her. The only thing that came to focus was the little girl's hand which formed a sign: Igni. At that, Ry smiled.

The chort did yet another mad dash towards the now 'unarmed' witcher aiming to end the fight here and now. Ry bolted to her feet, and mustered all the energy and focus she could, and concentrated it all through the Sign Igni. Fire spewed forth from her hands. A cone of flame enveloped the charging chort, causing it to yelp in fear and reel onto its hind legs.

Ry acted quickly. Dashing forward she sled across the wet earth, snatching the silver sword and resumed running towards the chort. The beast was still putting fires out on it's fur when the witcher strike. The silver sword slipped through it's raised arm pit, through the right lung and into it's heart.

Twist. Pull.

Blood.

It now thoroughly stained her clothes as the chort keeled over onto it's left side, dead. Her breaths were still controlled, though there was a faint smile on her face. This was Ry's first real monster slaying without her master's aid. Though the potion began to wear off, the beast's blow, while not breaking anything, still set her shoulder and bicep on fire.

Ry then remembered the girl.

The witcher panicked for a moment as she searched her surroundings for any signs of the girl. To her shock there was no girl. She paused for thought: was the girl ever really there? Ry internally panicked. ' _Am I losing my mind?'_

Ry shook her head, casting any similar thoughts out of her mind. Her mind returned back to the task at hand; getting that women home. Before she left, however, she proceeded to collect her trophy: the chort's head. It took nearly half an hour but she was able to free the beasts head from it's shoulders. Using a hook to hold it, Ry then begun the trek back to the road. Ry saw the trail the women left, and followed it for a while before seeing it lead onto the road. Thinking that she was safe Ry turned back towards the thicket where this all begun and started walking. It was late in the afternoon when she returned to Grey, who neighed at the site of his rider.

"I know." Ry said with a grin. "Sorry for making you wait."

The stallion purred his lips and looked away.

"Come on Grey, lighten up." Ry she said putting a hand on the stallion. She hooked on the trophy she had collected onto the saddle, giving a momentary gaze. "Tell you what. I'll wash you down once we get to Damerell, how about that?"

The stallion seemed to nod, looking at Ry with the best expression a horse could make to convey 'Are you serious?'

"Promise is a promise Grey. Now come on," Ry mounted the stallion. "We got to get moving."

The pair made their way down the road and pass the wreckage. Upon exiting the woods she was greeted with a breathtaking sight; the White Walls of Exeter. The massive cliffs which discouraged invasion after invasion were one of the most iconic land markers of the kingdom next to the Graig Lwyd mountains. She took a moment to take in the imposing cliffs before spurring Grey forward.

Ry then saw the women from earlier. She was leaned up against a sign post. Ry remember passing by it going south. The fork split the road either going to Lan Exeter or to Grand Wall, the farest northern city in Kovir. As Ry grew closer to the road sign the women didn't seem to react until the witcher was in shouting distance. At first the women seem to spring up, aiming to run, then recognized the green of Ry's armor. She then seem to relax and lean on the sign.

"You're alive!" She shouted at Ry. "I heard you and the beast fighting... Thought you died."

"Takes a lot more than a chort to fell me." Ry said with a small grin.

"Think you could give me a ride?" The women asked.

"If Grey will allow it..." Ry said passively, she extended a hand down to the women. The first attempt getting her on the horse was met with failure as Grey thrashed and pulled away from the women.

"Grey. Don't make me use Axii." With that threat Grey seemed to calm down. The second attempt was much more successful, the women climbed on, sitting in front of Ry in the saddle.

"I'm Helen by the way." The women said with a smile. "Thank you for saving me."

"Ry, and don't mention it."

The ride was silent, except for the crashing of the waves against the cliffs next to the road. Ry kept a steady speed, taking extra precautions due to the extra passenger. Helen grew less tense as they rode down the road, the consistent clopping along the cobbles seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the women.

"Strange..." Helen finally spoke, as if she came to some realization.

"What is?" Ry asked.

"You're the first she-witcher I've ever met." Helen said looking over her shoulder. "Thought only men could be witchers."

"I'm the only one..." Ry said a bit dejected.

"Oh? I'm sorry i didn't mean-"

Ry raised a hand. "It's alright. No need to apologize."

Helen then turned back around, though she did ask another question. "Are you... The last of your kind?"

Ry was silent for a few seemingly long moments before saying "Don't know." Ry looked out over the ocean. "Don't remember much past three years ago. Remember a little on how to be a witcher, and that is about it."

"Oh... I'm terribly sorry about all... This. I didn't mean to open old wounds."

Ry shook her head. "Master suggests I talk about it more often. Grief has a tendency to loose it's hold the more you speak of it."

"So you have a lord you serve?"

"Well..." Ry tried to best explain it, looking back to the road. "My master is Gael, he's a much more experience witcher. Was the one to find me... That's another story entirely though." She continued on. "Anyway, Gael serves King Tankred-"

"Your master serves King Tankred?!" Helen asked blown away.

Ry became a little flustered. "Um, yes, Gael pledged himself to the king and is now the court witcher. Now I serve the king through Gael, so to speak."

"Ah, I see." Helen said nodding. "I'm from Temeria actually. Came here with the caravan."

Ry nodded. "Hm, long ways to travel. Why did you come along?"

Helen shrugged. "Well. Just wanted to see the world, y'know. Father was a soldier for many years before he hung his blade over the mantel and became a farmer." She spoke wistfully. "Guess I just have his blood; always wanting to see the world... Too bad I don't have his spirit."

Ry didn't pick up on Helen's dejected nature, instead turning attention ahead. "Got here early. Good."

The town of Damerel was a quiet town built next to a creek which ran water down off into the sea. Tall, white stone walls guarded it from both brigands and beasts, a few guard towers surrounded the town, archers in them, keeping watch. As they closed to Damerel a mounted guardsmen passed by them, wearing the colors of house Gendry; the Boar adnored his shield.

Passing through the gate into the town proper Ry's senses were bombarded. Smells of meats cooking, and bread baking, too smith hammering and carpenters sawing too Ry aback for a moment. She wasn't able to enjoy it for long. A guardsmen came from the gate house looking at Ry intently. She knew him, his brown hair, brown eyes, strong jaw and shoulders reminded the witcher of someone, though she could not place him.

"Ah, witcher, you've returned."

"Ah, Yoven." Ry said, remembering the sergeant's name upon hearing his high pitched voice. "Glad to see your still well."

"Same to you, and," He motioned to the women. "Who is this?"

"Helen, I'm from Temeria." Helen introduced herself. "My caravan was attacked by a beast. This witcher saved my life."

Yoven nodded. "Ah, you must be apart of the Franklin company." He motioned to the guardsmen behind him. "Me and the lads were about to go out and search. Your caravan master came by."

Helen let out a groan. "'Course he'd be alive." With help from Ry, Helen dismounted Grey. "Where is he?"

"The local inn, he's recovering from a long march." Yoven pointed behind him. "I would follow her witcher, seems your master has similar tastes."

Ry raised an eyebrow. "I was supposed to meet him in Lan Exeter. What is he doing here?"

"Wouldn't say, your ears only."

Ry dismounted Grey as well, opting to guide him by the reins. "Thanks for telling me."

"You helped me before, remember? The trolls?"

Ry chuckled. "Yes. The ice trolls. Just remember, not all monster need to be killed."

Yoven smiled, and motioned towards the tavern. "Wish for me to walk you over."

"I can find my way, thank you though."

"Oh." The guardsmen seemed somewhat dejected. "Well. Need to start patrolling anyway..."

"Aye, good day." Ry said with a smile.

Ry guided Grey by the reins following behind Helen as they made their way through the town to the tavern. It was late in the afternoon so the streets were still crowded with people. Ry kept a hand on Grey's nose, keeping the horse calm. It was like Ry in that sense; didn't like people all that much.

"You know he smitten you?"

Helen's comment threw the witcher off. "What?"

Helen giggled, looking over her shoulder at Ry. "The guardsmen. Didn't you notice how he looked at you?"

"Huh?"

"Gods you're hopeless." Helen said turning back around.

"No, what do you mean?" Ry asked now feeling embarrassed.

Helen looked over her shoulder again. "He thought you were beautiful. That's why he wanted to walk with you."

Ry looked away from Helen. "Your crazy. I'm no fair maid."

"Maybe that's what he likes." Helen said looking down the road. "The bards say love comes in all forms."

"They also say some witcher destroyed the whole Wild Hunt, and that the emperor's daughter is a witcher now." Ry said in a dismissive tone.

"And that's your problem Ry."

"What is?"

Helen turned to face Ry. "You're too cynical."

Ry rolled her eyes at that comment. She put little stock in the songs of bards, and the words of poets. It was the one thing she liked about her profession. In her mind, being a witcher was simple, straight forward. There was no need for long, pointless, to her at least, philosophical debate. A witcher just needed to keep their wits about them, and their eyes and ears open. Not that she didn't do that, she recalled many conversations with Gael over mulled wine about life and the Path many a times. Her master reminder, often, that she was a lucky girl. Many witchers didn't have the opportunities she was given. Finally they arrived at the inn. It was a tall building, built with stone and mortar, a great sign which read 'White Rock Inn' adorned the mantel of the building. Helen turned to Ry as the witcher was tieing off her stallion far from the other horses.

"Well." Helen extended a hand. "Thanks. For... Everything."

Ry nodded, and shook the woman's hand. "Again. No need."

"There is a need. Kindness unthanked leads good men down dark paths." Helen said with a smile, which quickly disappeared with a sigh, "Now I need to find that bastard who ran the caravan. See if I'm still going to get any pay."

"Good luck with that."

"Thanks, going to need it."

Helen first entered the tavern, and disappeared into the maze of tables and stools. Ry came in soon after, thankful for once she was tall. It allowed her to see over the sea of people inside the inn. Though she was also thankful Gael wasn't a hard man to find. Tucked away in the corner sat a strong looking man, with a long braided red beard, and a fading red hair to match. His red tabard with the crest of the king, a armored arm, proudly displayed on his chest, concealed the rest of his Ursine gear. In his hand a tankard of what Ry assumed to be a stout, guessing only by her master's pervious drinks. He spotted Ry and beckoned her over. She did not refuse, navigating through the crowd eventually arriving at the table, a stool already portioned for her.

"Running late." Gael said with a smirk.

"Apologize, chrot got in the way." Ry said sitting down.

"That would do it." Gael said taking a drink from his tankard. "That the only beast you encountered."

"Few trolls when I headed south." Ry begun cracking her knuckles passively. "Said they got kicked off their land. Wanted a new one. Convinced them to go back through a game of riddles."

"Taught you well." Gael said with a smirk. "Now." He said reaching into his satchel. "Got this via rider in the night," He pulled out a piece of parchment. "Why I'm here." He tossed it onto the table.

Ry took it and read it. "Hm. 'Report to Pont Vanis, post haste. Bring your apprentice.' Already moved to the summer capital?"

Gael shrugged. "Our king seems impatient. If he's moved to Vanis already, it leads me to think something has gone wrong."

Ry nodded. "I take it we ride tomorrow."

Gael nodded. "Don't drink too much, want you well and aware when we ride."  
"Would expect this much, why not get a head start?" Ry asked her master.

"Innkeeper owes me a favor. Free nights stay. Why turn it down?"

"Because their are... Well-"

"People?" Gael asked with a wide smile on his face. "Come now, most of them are harmless."

"But... still."

Gael let out a hearty laugh. "Never understood that about you. You get a nice night stay at an inn and you wish for a bed roll out in the cold."

"You know why." Ry grumbled. "Folk don't like us. Think we're freaks and what not."

"Not all of them." Gael said with a smirk. "Guardsmen Yoven seemed to think the opposite. Asked if you were promised to anyone."

Ry looked down at the table, her face turning red. "Please... Stop."

Gael chuckled. "Come now. Smile. You bagged your first beast, without my aid, and there is a young, handsome lad out their pining for ya. You should be celebrating."

Ry chuckled, then remembered something. "About that..." She tried to best say what she was thinking. "During the fight... I saw someone."

Gael nodded, his face turning serious. "Go on."

Ry tapped her finger on the table nervously. "A girl... Young. All in white, even had matching hair... She seemingly lured me to the chort... Then showed me the sign igni."

Gael's eyes widened. "You casted it?"

"Yeah, funny thing, you hadn't taught me that sign." Ry said thinking back on it.

Gael stroked his beard. "She say anything?"

Ry nodded. "A name. Rylie. Think that could be my real name..." She shook her head. "Must be going mad."

"You're not mad, Ry." Gael reassured his nervous apprentice. "Adrenaline does things to young witchers. Were you on potions?"

"For the first sighting, no, but I was... On edge."

"Then there you go. " He waved his hand, almost as if he was dismissing Ry's fears. "I've seen mad men. They don't think they're crazy. It's when you start thinking you're the only sane one when you should be worried."

Ry smirked, sighing in relief. "They got mulled wine here?"

"Think so. Just don't drink too much." Gael reminded his apprentice with a smirk. "Don't want you waking up in the stables."  
"It was one time." Ry said slightly red in the face. She then grinned mischievously at her master as a thought occurred to her."If we're keeping score, how about that one time you swore animals were talking to you."

"That was a bad brew of swallow, doesn't count."


	8. Snake Over The Scorpion, Act 1

_Nilfgaard, May 1278_

Thunder. Lighting. Rain.

These three things had plagued Nilfgaard for the past four days. The sky was still dark, despite it being well into the afternoon, giving the impressing of a cold day in winter rather than a warm spring day. The rains were often attributed to the death throes of the season. Summer would soon be upon the seat of the empire, and with it, the dry, hot summer would drain the creeks dry and turn the grass, trees and crops brown.

Though this wasn't on the mind of Leanus as he rode down the cobblestone wind had picked up for just a moment, removing his hood for just a moment. His scarred, wrinkled face frowned as he pulled the hood over salt and pepper hair, though it did little to cover his matching beard.

The well kept cobbles eventually brought Leanus to a hamlet: Dawnhill. He saw a few towns people out and about, clearly in a hurry to get their task done and then out of the rain. The town itself was a great example of Nilfgaardian architecture. All strong stone buildings at least two stories in height, a lamp post every ten yards across the main road in and out of town.

The witcher brought his horse to his destination in the town: The Red Fox Inn. He brought his horse through the courtyard, stables were on either side of it, with fresh hay and water. A young man, wearing a brown cloak over a studded brown doublet, came and took the horse by the reins as the witcher stepped off. He held a hand halting the stable boy, he pulling a long cane from a pouch on the side of the saddle. The witcher then nodded to the stable boy as a signal to take the horse. With a grunt, the venerable witcher made his way inside.

Opening the door Leanus was greeted with sights, sounds and smells of a lively inn; waitresses zig-zagged through the maze of tables which dotted the main floor. The witcher noted the strong, broad shouldered man with a sword at his hip watching the door. Passing by him the old man searched for an isolated table. Several gave the venerable witcher a curious glance, those who recognized his eyes and medallion cursed and whispered under their breathe, he even heard quite snickers at the fact that a witcher had to walk with a cane.

Grunting Leanus sat down at a table, far from the rest and with a view of the door. At first none came to serve the witcher, he heard the barmaids in the far corner attempting to determine who should serve him. Eventually a red headed women with a stern face appeared.

"What ye want, witcher?"

She was a nordling, that surprised Leanus. It was nice to hear a voice that reminded him of home. As he studied her face the witcher could've sworn he'd seen her before, though he could not place it. Perhaps it was the stern green eyes. The witcher recalled a hellion in a village outside Novigrad that helped him with a hunt, she had similar eyes, and that was about all he could remember of her.

"The darkest, blackest beer you have." He requested with a grin. He brought down his hood, showing his weathered, grandfatherly face. "Blacker than Radovid's heart."

At that last comment he saw a smile grow on her face. "I think we have some Cintrian stout in the cellar."

The bar maid disappeared off through a door leading out of the common room. The witcher tapped his fingers on the table rhythmically. Leanus gazed around the bar, looking for anyone who might cause trouble. The witcher passively rested a hand on the saber on his hip as his gaze was met with angry brown eyes, from a skinny, shifty young man, a wine glass in hand.

"'Ere's your stout ." The witcher's attention was brought back to the red headed women. She caught the witcher gazing over at the thin man. "Pay no heed to him. Simon is... Odd."

"Odd you say?"

The barmaid nodded. "Aye. Every time a travel come on through he tries staring them down. Doesn't speak a lot. Orders a glass of wine, stares at people, then leaves."

The witcher was about to say something when the door swung open. A women, grabbed in a black, form fitting, doublet and matching trousers stomped in. Her black leather boots clinking with every step as she made her way through the lively tavern. She finally stopped before the witcher, her blue eyes gazing down at the witcher.

"You witcher Leanus?"

Leanus looked up to meet the women's eyes. She had strong, imperial features, clearly of high birth. Her expression told more; clearly she believed this work was beneath her station. The way she tapped her leather boots told him she was just ready to get this over with. As such, Leanus would make certain to be as slow as possible.

"Depends. Who is asking." The witcher replied taking a sip of the stout .

"Alison Var Fogrick, in service to house Dorn." The woman introduced herself proudly before returning to her disinterested face. "I've been sent here my Lord Gerran; the one who contracted you."

Leanus nodded, taking another long sip of the stout. Truthfully it was subpar beer, but he had made the commitment to drink this beer and to annoy this highborn, so he took his time. After finishing the sip he wiped his face with his sleeve and looked up to Alison.

"Hmpf, figured. Only Gerran would send an errand girl to meet with a witcher. Tell me; what wonder is he building now?"

"I am no errand girl I-"  
"Yes, yes, something very important." Leanus stood up with help of the table and brought his cane into his hand. "Now, if you wish, we can get on with it."

The women gave the witcher a nod and motioned him to follow her. "Your escort is becoming impatient. Best we get moving."

"Escort?"

The witcher was soon given his answer to his query as soon as he stepped from the warm, inviting atmosphere of the tavern and re entered the wet, gloomy village. In the courtyard of the tavern stood four Black Ones, fully armored, visors down, sitting tall in their war horses. Their armor shined in the dim light of the day. Leanus stared down the Impera knights with a certain amount of amusement.

"Think this impresses me?" Leanus asked Alison as she lead him to his horse.

Alison looked her shoulder. "I do not question my lord's command, master witcher." Her tone was sharp, clearly coming to dislike the witcher more and more.

"Huh, how ironic."

This time Alison fully turned to face the witcher. "How so?"

"Var Fogrick's sigil is the unbroken stallion, is it not?" Leanus asked with a faint sign of a grin.

Alison gave the witcher a angry glare. She flared her nostrils and turned back to her horse. "Mount your mare old man, 'less you need help."

With a grunt, Leanus mounted his horse, slipping his cane into it's holster. "Ready when you are."

She gave a sweeping motion. "Ride!" She commanded.

The Black Ones rode out, one after the other, one held back and allowed Alison and then Leanus to pass. The group of riders thundered their the town. The people in the town stopped what they were doing to watch the passing riders. Leanus watched the crowd, an old habit of his, he spotted a few faces he noted to be suspicious; a pale man, half elf, who seemed to grow paler at the sight of the Black Ones. A pudgy women stepping out of a shop, as if she was looking for someone. Leanus turned to to watch the other side, spying a group of young kids, clad in ragged black and red clothes. One stood out, a women, early twenties, who wore slightly nicer clothes, and a necklace which mimicked the golden sun of Nilfgaard.

The town seemed to disappear all too quickly as the riders entered the countryside. Leanus noted that the rain started to let up, though the clouds did not let up. He could hear the tell tale signs of thunder in the distance, more storms were to come. The witcher looked over to Alison, who was riding next to him, a hand on the hilt of her sword.

"You won't need to use that." Leanus said to Alison.

Alison did not reply, simply huffing and looking away from the witcher.

"So, you mind telling me about the contract?"

"You did receive the instructions?" Alison asked flatly. "You will be briefed by Lord Gerran when we arrive at the manor."

"So Gerran shall be home?" Leanus asked with surprise. "Hmm, must have to do with one of his offspring."

"How-"  
"Because Lord Gerran is like every other lordling;" Leanus cutted off Cares only about furthering their family, and if it goes on. And judging by the armed escort and armed errand girl I believe it must be one of his sons. The older one."

"Lord Gerran has only one son now." Alison said curtly. "Sir Derik died during the war."

"So then it must be the last heir. Has he not other heirs?"

"How is this relevant?"  
Leanus sighed. "I must know every aspect of the family. Cursing a son while other heirs live is pointless." Leanus begun to explain. "Meaning this is could be a personal vendetta, not an attempt by a rival house to uproot the other."

Alison was silent, as if she was weighing her options before speaking again. "Drake fell ill a fortnight ago. First we thought it a pox, but then things changed."

"Like what?"

"The mage and alchemist which were loyal servants to Lord Gerran for years fled only a week ago. Soon after a note was discovered, carved into the door of young Drake."

"Well?" Leanus asked. "Know what it said?"

"'You scorned me, now I scorn you!'" Alison said, she turned to the witcher. "That is all I know. I am the master-at-arms, my place is gaurding the manor and training the lord's offspring in self defense. Magic... Is not my strong suit."

"Rarely is anyone's." Leanus mumbled as they trotted down the road.

The manor finally came into view. It was exactly what Leanus expected; a marvel of architecture had the weather been better Leanus assumed it would look much more vibrant than it was. A tall, white painted, wall surrounded a tall elegant state house which stood on a hill overlooking a moor. Behind it was the river Elb which acted as a natural barrier for the south portion of the manor. As the riders came within shouting distance a horn was heard and the gates opened.

Upon passing through the gates Leanus was given a better impression of the manor. The walls had concealed the vibrant gardens which surrounded the grounds between the wall and the house. Statues of great Nilfgaardians, including the Emperor, Emhyr Var Emreis. One statue caught the witcher's eye however. It was no historical figure he could recall, but judging by the flower bed that surrounded it, and the large plaque at it's base it was someone of great importance. The statue depicted a knight, wearing a winged helm, in one hand was held the hilt of a large sword which was held facing down, the other held a shield with the house sigil of Var Dorn, the hammer in the sun. Leanus was about to ask about the statue but was interrupted by Alison dismounting and motioning him to follow.

Coming off his horse Leanus followed Alison inside the impressive manor. The interior was as grand as the exterior. A large chandelier holding a host of candles illuminated the vast, well decorated, foyer. A long staircase stretched in the middle, a velvet rug bisecting mahogany steps. Suits of armor flanked the staircase, as well as the two door ways leading to the other ground level rooms.

"Stop staring." Alison spoke up. "Lord Gerran is not a patient man."

"He will have to be." Leanus grumbled. "My kind of work is not the kind to be rushed."

Alison did not reply, instead she merely motioned for the witcher to follow her up the stairs. As Leanus climbed the steps he saw many of the servants who worked in the manor peer out from the doors below, and saw several leaning over the railings of the staircase to get a good look at the witcher. Leanus was used to such attention; the mixture of awe and fright in their faces, the whispers between the onlookers was almost as memorable as the wind blowing through the trees.

Upon reaching the second floor landing Leanus was guided down a long hallway going east. Lining the hall were what you expected in the manor of a lord; large paintings of family members, sculptures of both the former and famed individuals throughout Nilfgaard. Eventually Alison halted before a set of grand double doors. She, in a careful manner, wrapped her hand around the knob, turned it and opened the door, slowly. The women peered around the corner, like a child checking if their parents had gone to sleep, before fully entering the room.

"Lord Gerran." She addressed an unseen man. "Master Witcher Leanus Mutak of the Griffin School." Alison motioned for the witcher to come in.

"Please," A low, powerful voice called from the room. "Enter. Master witcher."

Leanus entered, Alison allowed him to pass, she placing a hand on her sword on her hip. The witcher was then greeted firstly by a number of tables, upon them lay miniature replicas of famous sites in the empire. Golden Spires the Royal Palace of Beauclair, the Black Forges and a soon to be completed Royal Castle of Vizima.

Standing over the last, incomplete miniature was a broad shoulder, tanned faced man in his late thirties. He had a head of thick black hair strong brown eyes, a well kept beard adorned a face with strong cheekbones and an equally powerful jaw. He was dressed in a white frock with red trimming he wore a black shirt and fine leather trousers, with matching boots. The man gave the witcher a nod and looked over to Alison.

"Alison, leave us."

"But my lord-"

"Out." Lord Gerran's tone was strong, unwavering. The Master At Arms hesitated for a moment before bowing and making her way out, closing the door behind her. "Now, that we are alone," Lord Gerran moved around the table, elegantly, to the witcher. "I trust you know who I am?" He extended a hand for the witcher to shake.

"Lord Gerran Var Dorn." Leanus took his hand, shaking it. "I've heard many things of your house."

"Have you now?" Gerran put his free hand on Leanus's shoulder, bringing the witcher closer. "Good things I would hope."

Leanus thought on how to best phrase what he was about to say. "They often say their are two emperors of Nilfgaard. One who breaks kingdoms, and one who builds them."

Gerran let a small chuckle out, he let the witcher out of his hold and motioned to a large oak desk sat in front a large window with a commanding view of the Elb river and even the capital, Golden Spires. "A drink? I heard you had a rough journey."

"It was wet." Leanus followed Gerran, hobbling behind the noble lord. "Though I've experienced worse."

"Have you really?" Gerran uncorked a bottle a delicious aroma of red wine filled Leanus nose. Leanus identified it as Esst Esst, the 1272 Vintage.

"Aye," Leanus truly, truly wished to have a glass and thoroughly experienced it, but there was work to be done. "Not to be a bore, but I believe my stories would be better told once the task at hand was finished."

Gerran grinned. "How refreshing." He said pouring himself and Leanus a glass each. He handed Leanus his and took his. "That is why I like you witchers, you're simple, no need for foreplay. I entrust you were able to pry out the reason why you are here from Alison?"

Leanus chuckled. "She is easy to convince."

"Why I sent her. She is very protective of me and my children, she acted as a midwife for Derek, Theresa... Volima." Gerran seemed to be hurt by that last name, he took a long sip of wine to cover the frown. "But I knew she would tell you. If I sent Hunter he may return with only your head and Franklin is too busy organizing the house to rid into Dawnhill." He took another sip. "That and I knew she would give you enough information to get you interested." He motioned Leanus too sit in the chair in front of the desk.

"That I am." Leanus sat down finding the chair was lower than expected. In contrast to Gerran's seat which was much higher. The witcher knew this tactic; used often by bankers as a way to passively intimidate clients. "Tell me, from the start, from your perspective."

Gerran nodded. "I was in Vizima actually, overseeing that." He pointed at the miniature of the palace. "The crown thought it was be a nice gift to the pacified Temerians. A fortnight ago I received a letter from a rider in the night. My son was ill, and the court alchemist advised I return. Naturally I left the next day."

Gerran took another sip of wine. "My arrival was greeted by panic. According to Alison someone had left a message on my son's door, and the alchemist and mage had disappeared in the night, stealing two horses and five hundred crowns." Gerran shook his head. "I've sent trackers after them, but the rain has made impossible to pick up any trail."

"Any reason for them to flee?" Leanus asked leaning back into the chair. "They leave a note? Any clue to where they'd go?"

Gerran sighed. "The alchemist, no, he was a loyal servant of my father, a faithful man, I always relied on him in times of trouble." He took another sip, his glass now half empty. "The mage however..." His mood change, now to a combination of regret and anger. "Was trouble."

Leanus quirked an eyebrow. "Trouble how?"

Gerran shook his head again. "I took him on advisement of the Marcus, the alchemist. They were old friends, and the mage was merely seeking a home after the Redianas ran him out."

"Guessing part of that was a lie." Leanus stated flatly.

"It was true, but not the whole truth." Gerran took a long sip before draining the rest of the glass. "I always had my suspicions of the man, though it was all but a feeling. Eventually I called in a favor from Imperial Intelligence. They found a similar description of a mage conducting... Less than ethical experiments in Redania." Gerran poured himself another glass. "Nevertheless, he was a wanted man."  
"He have a name."

Gerran nodded. "Heinrich. Though the other mage implicated in the experiments gave no name, they simply referred to him as 'the Giver'."

"Hmm..." Leanus thought deeply. That alias sounded familiar, thought he could not place it. "The message, on the door, what did it say?"

"'You've scorned me, now I scorn you.'" Gerran said those words slowly almost as if he was examining them as they were said. "The mage fled the night right after that message was placed their."

Leanus scratched his beard. "Hmm, I do not think the curse is directed at you."

"But the message?"

"'Because we watch the snake, we miss the scorpion.'" Leanus said softly. "Because we assumed that the curse was directed at you, because of your station we missed the wording and placement."

Gerran became intrigued. "Go on."

Leanus took a sip of Esst Esst, taking a moment to truly experince the wine. "The message. The words were not one of your enemies. They wish to truly scorn you they'd curse you or more simply just kill you. Now your son is a way to strike you but it's the message that gives it away." He took another sip of wine, this time more out of habit. "'You've scorned me...' That is what is important, your son scorned some, this is payback."

Leanus finished off the wine. "Now we must simply find out who your son has scorned."


	9. Snake Over The Scorpion, Act 2

"And this is how you found it?" Leanus looked to the maid, Sybil, who gazed back at the witcher confused for a moment. He sighed and motioned back at the carving on the son's door. "The door."

She jumped. "Aye! Yes, yes master." The maid passively tugged on her dress. "I awoke in middle of the night, a sound disturbed my slumber, I then came to see what it was all about, and behold!"

Leanus hummed noncommittally. "Any evidence of a break in?" Sybil shook her head. "Is there any way for a person to enter the manor unseen."

The maid hesitated. "N-No master. Only way in is through the gate house." Leanus narrowed his eyes at her, making her squirm. "Well... There is one other way..."

"Go on."

She took a step closer to Leanus. "Promise not to tell Lord Gerran?"

"I'm here to break a curse, not discipline chambermaids." Leanus said with a hint of a grin. "What you tell me is between us and the gods."

Sybil sighed in relief. "Come with me." She whispered.  
While the maid lead Leanus, to what he assumed to be a secret passage into the manor he took a moment to think over the investigation. Currently the curse of Derek Var Dorn seemed to be a standard one. Madness, boils, and loss of vision lead Leanus to believe it was a Black Pox curse. Though he only had descriptions to go on, he was unable to see the boy. According to Gerran his son had to be isolated. Only the maid, Sybil, and his family members were permitted in. The others were greeted with a slew of curses and him taking any measures to hide himself. He even attacked a plague doctor who attempted to exam him. Though from he was told, the symptoms matched perfectly. The curse itself was an easy one to break. Black Magic of this kind required a doll charged with magic and either hair or something significant to the afflicted as a channel. Destroying the doll would reverse the curse, and the young man would be back to normal within a fortnight.

Though now came to the problem of who casted it. The manor seemed to have already convicted the missing mage, though Leanus had his doubts. Though he did 'vanish' something nagged at him that the mage was innocent, and something else was afoot. Leanus needed to know more of the son, perhaps then he would be able to reach a conclusion.

"Tell me Sybil." The witcher asked the maid. "What was Derek like, before the curse?"

"Oh, um, he was very..." Sybil was clearly looking for kinder words than the ones that had come to mind, her face contorted from a frown and into a smile that was so clearly forced. "Why he was just the most jovial man in Nilfgaard."

"Kind way of saying he was a drunk?" Leanus asked the maid.

She sighed. "I'm afraid so... Derek started drinking at such a young age and after the war..." She paused, then looked at a door. "Here. This is the way."

She swung the door open, revealing a dark, cramped looking staircase that spiraled downward. Leanus took a good whiff of the cold air that came from it. Spirits of all kinds tickled his nose; wine, ale, stout, vodka, even some whiskey. The witcher assumed this was the way to the cellar. Sybil grabbed a lantern which hung by the handle on the wall. She attempted to light it with flint but the witcher halted her.

"Allow me."

Leanus flicked his wrist and suddenly the candle within the lantern lit as if it sparked itself. Sybil gasped in fright then looked over to the witcher who had an amused look which Sybil mocked.

"You scared me, master." She said with an amused smile.

"Forgive me." Leanus said with an equally amused look. He then motioned with his free hand down the staircase. "Lead the way."

Sybil and Leanus walked down the winding staircase. The air grew cooler and cooler the further they went down. Leanus judged by how the brick wall gave way to stone that they had descended deep beneath the manor. Eventually they reached the bottom of the stair case. The smells of the alcohols were stronger and made Leanus's mouth salivate.

"Here it is!" The maid proclaimed approaching a wine cask.

Leanus noted the cask was a vintage 1265 Est-Est. Though he quickly noted that it contained no wine at all. Sybil grabbed the wine stem placed within it, and twisted and pulled. A clicking noise could be heard and sybil pulled it open, revealing a cramped, but navigable, entrance to a tunnel. Peering inside it, Leanus could see maybe thirty feet within the tunnel. From what the witcher could see it was well constructed. Another lantern hung inside the tunnel, and by how it was covered in dust, it had not been moved in sometime.

"Lord Gerran's father installed this tunnel. In the event that we had to make a speedy escape." Sybil explained. "It was... Well. How Derek got unwanted guests into the house."

"Unwanted guests?"

Sybil sighed. "A girl, well, woman by now. Amelia." She spoke wistfully, as if she was recalling a tragedy. "Her mother used to work in the kitchen, now she owns a bakery in the town."

"Bad blood between her and Lord Gerran?" Leanus asked the maid, still inspecting the tunnel.

"Oh gods no!" The maid replied, almost hurt. "Lord Gerran was supportive of Ms. Gretta's decision. She always dreamed of owning a place to call her own. He even gave her a loan to purchase the bakery."

"What about the daughter and Derek?"

At that Sybil seemed to wilt. "Well..."

Leanus turned from the tunnel, eyes shining from the candle menacingly. "Well?"

"Around... Say. A month or two ago... I found Derek in his room, weeping." Sybil begun looking down to her feet. "He confided in me that he had... Been in a relationship with Amelia, and that they had broken it off."

Leanus hummed non committedly. "Did Amelia break it off?"

"No... Derek did." Sybil said, her previous youthful energy gone, clearly distraught by the whole event. "He confided in me that his father ordered him to do so. So he did was he was told... Which was odd."

Leanus raised an eyebrow in response to that last comment. "Was Derek not the kind to take orders?"

"Well... Derek wasn't... Always the heir." Sybil said now looking even sadder. "That was Darrius... He died in the war."

Leanus nodded at that. "Ah. I take it Derek had the syndrome of being the second born son. Nothing expected of him, and all the wealth and power of a noble."

Sybil nodded. "Derek was always wild, but Darrius kept him in line. They were thick as thieves those two." She said, the ghost of a smile briefly forming before giving way to somber expression. "As such, when Emperor Emyr made the call, Darrius answered, as did Derek."

Leanus narrowed his gaze at the women. "How old was Derek when he enlisted?"

"Fifteen." Sybil shook her head. "Just a child. I begged him not to go but he ran off in the night." She sobbed, shoulders shaking. "After Redania fell, Derek came home... Gone was that boy... He was left empty, like the helm of his brother."

"They didn't have his body?"

"Derek said Darrius and him were sent into Novigrad." Sybil clenched her fists. "That city took those boys, even though Derek lived he was dead inside."

Leanus sighed, it was a story he heard all too often. The witcher had seen many wars, too many for his liking. He had been the middle of many of them. When he was a young man and in service to now a long gone noble house he had seen so many men like Derek lose their humanity on the field. Not even witchers were immune to such hardships; he remembered so many of his brothers becoming what many said they were, cold hearted killers.

"Take it the drinking only got worse?" Leanus asked.

Sybil only nodded.

"Was he... Ever violent?"

Sybil shook her head. "No, never. Not Derek. Sweet child he is."

Leanus frowned. ' _She's little use to me. Isn't going to talk unless I make her...'_

"Going to ask again." Leanus straightened up slightly, no longer leaning on his cane. "Has, Derek ever been a violent drunk?"

Sybil looked Leanus directly in the eye. "No."

The witcher sighed, he knew she was lying, but it was pointless to press her any further. He then gave her a reassuring smile. "Alright. I believe you. I merely need to check all possibilities."

The maid scoffed. "Derek would never lay a hand on anyone! I cannot even fathom-"

"Relax." Leanus said again with a disarming smile. "Now, this girl, Amelia, were would I find her?"

"More than likely in the village... I wish I could be more specific but I never spoke to Amelia for longer than a few sentences. Such a shy girl she was, even when she grew older."

"Her mother's bakery perhaps?" Leanus purposed.

"That would be a excellent place to start!" Sybil remarked. "Now, if you'll follow me, dinner shall be ready soon and I'll have to help set the table. You are more than welcomed to join us, master witcher."

Leaus smiled and shook his head. "I have much work to do. I'll take it in my room, which if I recall, Lord Gerran mentioned something of you leading me there.

"Ah, yes! You sidetracked me- I mean! It's not your fault I-"

"Calm yourself, just be on with it."

The maid took a deep breath and motioned up the stairs with her free hand. "Follow me."

Sybil lead the witcher up the stairs. The walk up was in silence though Leanus did catch the maid gazing over her shoulder at the witcher a few times, a conflicted expression on her face. Upon reaching the landing and exiting the staircase back in the hall Leanus caught a glimpse of movement around the corner. He looked to Sybil, who seemed to have seen the source of the movement.

"Volima..." Sybil said with an amused look. "Curious as ever. Much like her sister in a way."

"Threesa, correct?" The maid nodded in response. "Where would she be at this hour?"

"She would be training her skill with a blade with master Alison." Sybil spoke of Threesa much differently then Derek. The tone was less wistful, and more disappointed.

"Where would she being practicing? I'd like to speak to her."

The maid squinted her eyes at the witcher. "What does Threesa have to do with all this?"

"She might know something. Kids tend to keep secrets from us grown ups." Leanus explained to Sybil.

"Let me show you to your room first, master. The sparring room is not too far off." Sybil said, motioning down the hall.

Leanus smiled. "That'll be fine."

As the pair walked down the hall Leanus could not help but notice how upset Sybil seemed about Threesa. Something told Leanus that the relationship between her and the girl was not a good one in the slightest. Though the witcher knew when and when not to press. He had already tried his luck when speaking about Derek's drinking and past, there was no need to push it further.

The pair finally stopped near the end of the east wing of the manor. It wasn't a long walk but Leanus's hobbling had slowed the walk down considerably. The maid opened the door, revealing a small, quaint guest room. A wide, soft looking, bed was tucked away in the far corner of the room. Next to it was a large oak desk, paper, quill and ink were already on it, neatly placed. On the opposite side of the room was a sparse book shelf. It having the essentials every Nilfgaardian Noble House should have; 'History of the Golden Sun' by Siegfried Castamere and 'Rise of A Nation; The Histories of the Houses and Holdings of Nilfgaard' by the same author.

' _Damn shame they didn't have anything more... Accurate.'_ Leanus thought to himself. ' _Siegfried was a twat.'_

Nothing else caught his eye in the room. It was sparse, boring even, though it accomplished what it needed too. His bags were put at the foot of the bed. He stepped forward and made certain all was there. His silver sword, check, his steel bastard sword, check, alchemy supplies, check, potions, check. It seemed all was accounted for.

"Satisfied?"  
Leanus nodded. "It'll do. Thank you, Sybil."

"You're welcome, master. Now if you shall excuse me, dinner requires my attention." Sybil paused for a moment. "Are you certain you would not wish to join us? This shall be Lord Gerran's last night here before he returns to Vizima."

"It's best I remain out of sight. It'll give the appearance to Lord Gerran something is being done."

"Wait can-"

"I'll break the curse." Leanus reassured the maid. "Though I must investigate all variables. Which reminds me; the training room, where is that?"

Sybil pointed down the hall. "Third door on the right. Let me warn you Theressa is very rough."

The maid curtsied and left the witcher. Leanus then searched the room for anything out of the ordinary. Taking his medallion in hand he waved it along the walls slowly, waiting to detect any minor motions, or even the quietest of sounds. Satisfied the room had no wards nor anything remotely magical within it, he pulled out from his alchemy supplies a pinch of sage and a brass plate. He set the plate down on the table, and the sage onto the plate. With a flick of his wrist the sage ignited and the smoke soon filled the room.

"That'll do it."

Leanus then left the room, closing the door behind him. The witcher then hobbled over to the training room. Listening in, he could clearly hear the sounds of practice swords clinking against one another. He considered knocking but figured they wouldn't hear it. Upon entering the room he saw Alison, wearing padded black armor and a young girl, of around fifteen or so. Leanus could see clearly she was Lord Gerran's daughter; she too had strong imperial features, though they were somewhat softer, he face more heart shaped then her father's. Though she had bright blue eyes in contrast to her father's dull brown.

It was quite spacious. A large padded floor took up the center portion of it, with candles lining the walls illuminating the room quite well. Racks of weapons also lined the same walls though the weapons they held were mundane at best. One rack caught his eye however, mainly because of how it was crafted. The rack had been fitted with a glass case to contain the weapon inside.

"Halt!" Alison commanded, blocking an overhead strike from Theresa's practice blade. She turned to face the witcher. "Master Leanus. The washroom is a few more doors down."

Leanus chuckled. "Afraid I've already relieved myself earlier." He then looked to the girl he presumed to the girl. "You must be Theressa."

She bowed slightly. "Master witcher." She planted the training blade into the leather pads on the floor, leaning on it. "You're here to break the curse."

"Indeed I am." He made his way into the training room proper. "If you have a moment, I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Alison stepped between the two. "Master witcher. With all due respect-"

"Please, we both know there is no respect between either of us." The witcher was quick to interject Alison. "Lord Gerran has given me the authority to question whom I please. So, if you would be so kind as to remain quiet while I do my job." Leanus then waved his hand dismissively at the master of arms.

"Now, young Theressa." Leanus addressed the young lady. "Tell me of your brother, Derek."

Theressa looked to Alison, for a moment. The women seemed to give a nod. "Go on." Alison said. "Tell the truth."

Theressa then took a breath in. "Derek is my brother. I love him as a sister should..."

"I detect resentment."

Theressa looked down to the floor. "He just... Hasn't been the same... Not since the war."

"War changes men. More often than it changes borders." Leanus said resting his free hand over his other on the cane. "I take it you were once close with him."

Theressa didn't make eye contact with the witcher, she nodded. "Before the war, he was always so lively... Yes, he did drink, but... I loved him."

Alison spoke up again. "See, a sister loves her brother, what a shocking revelation."

"Now, Theressa," Leanus ignored the woman. "I want you to think hard. Did Derek have any enemies? People with reasons to hurt him?"

"That bitch Amelia." Theressa snarled, the disdain for the women clear.

"Theressa! Language!"

"Sorry, master Allison." Theressa said bowing slightly. "But that girl was all of Derek's woes!"

Leanus titled his head. "Hm, how so?"

"She used him! Constantly!" It was clear to Leanus that the hate towards Amelia was genuine, or at least seemed so. "She played him; used him to get whatever she needed. Money, sex, wine, even convinced him once to buy her fisstech! Worst of all she's part of a cult!"

"Cult?"

Alison rolled her eyes. "Disgruntled youth mostly." She explained waving her hand dismissively. "They occupy an old chapel of the Eternal Fire on the northside of town."

"What happened to it?"

"Burnt to the ground, around with almost every other building surrounding it. Flame burnt so hot it set the surrounding fields on fire. Needless to say, no one has dare set foot on that plot of land. Many report strange happenings." Allison let out a sigh. "Now some... Vagabond from Oxenfurt claims it was where a god fell on the earth. Uses the church as a place to preach the teachings of- look, you'd waste your time. Nothing but local misfits."

Leanus nodded. "Still. This is something worth checking." He bowed his head. "Thank you, lady Theressa, you've been very helpful."

Theressa nodded. "I'm glad I could be of help, master witcher."

Leanus decided to take his leave sooner, rather than later. He got what he needed. Though something... Nagged him. It all seemed a little convenient. Despite that the witcher couldn't think of any reason why it would. Leanus was always wary when it all seemed too easy. Leanus casted out any thoughts of that out. What mattered now was preparing.

Leanus then returned to his room. Upon entering he went over to his saddlebag and produced a journal and begun writing. This has been his twentieth journal to use in his profession, he kept the others at his home in Toussaint. The witcher cared deeply on keeping a written history of everyone of his curses broken, and monsters slayed. He even considered consolidating them into a compendium to be a resource for future witchers. Though with only one school, the Viper, functioning, it would be a waste, in his mind.

His leads were clear, he had two; the lover, and the mage. Amelia fit the type to cast a curse, though Leanus was attempting to understand the how. The cult could be the means, he knew many mages who had used the guise of being divine servants to get gold and influence. It was certainly a possibility that the cult leader maybe something similar, though he would need to investigate the lead fully.

Then, of course, the mage would be the most obvious suspect. Magic users were notorious for disappearing for no apparent reason. They tended to keep to themselves and for good reason. Sources had been hunted down and murdered for any crime locals could think of for years. Though his disappearance was so sudden, and with the alchemist vanishing as well lead Leanus to believe something was afoot, but it may not have to do with the curse.

A knock on the door tore him from his work. "Sir. Sir! Your dinner's ready."

"Coming." Leanus stood from the desk, using a hand to prop himself up until he got a hold of his cane. He slowly hobbled to the door and opened it. A stringy servant, wearing fine clothes and carrying a silver tray stood at the door way. The arumas of freshly cooked lamb chops, roasted vegetables, filled his nose. The sight of the tankard of ale set himself on edge; this was the makings of a good meal.

"Where shall I set it, sir?"

Leanus came back from his internal thoughts of what delicious the meal would be and back to reality. "On the desk, good sir, let me clear it for you."

He put away his journal and laid the quill and ink he had been writing with neatly to the side. Then motioned to the servant to lay the tray on the desk. Leanus reached into his purse and prouduced two orens. He took the young man's hand and placed the gold coins in it.

"For your trouble." Leanus said with a smile.

The servant smiled back, and put the coins in his pocket. "Anything else sir?"

Leanus thought for a moment. "Yes... Do you know anything about the alchemist and mage's disappearance?"

The man shrugged. "Ask Master Alison. She investigated the disappearance."

"Very well. Take your leave."

The servant left, closing the door behind him. Leanus then turned to his meal. He sat down and decided to start with the beer. Though it never got into his mouth. Almost instantly his nose alerted him something was very wrong with the beer.

"Gods!" He cursed. ' _Must've skunked_ ' Leanus thought. He thought of going back for the servant but then remembered the wineskin he had in his saddle bag. "Well. If I found out, the others would've as well. Might as well drink a good red tonight."


End file.
